-- 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 palms to the heat and rubbed them vigorously
together. The room, or rather the two small rooms, that comprised his
lodgings in one of the poorest neighbourhoods of the city, were, since
the windows were tightly closed and the sides of the stove a dull red,
stifling hot; but Father Anton was not a young man, and the winter of
Paris was not the balmy winter of his beloved South.
He took off his spectacles, polished them abstractedly on the sleeve of
his _soutane_, replaced them, and picked up a book. He opened the
book, turned a few pages without looking at them, and with a little
sigh laid the book upon his knees. It was only in strict privacy that
he permitted himself an indulgence in regrets and the somewhat doubtful
solace of retrospection. And now he opened the stove door. It always
seemed that in the glowing coals and the little spurts of flames one
could picture so much more clearly the blue of the Mediterranean, the
sunny skies, the clean white cottages of Bernay-sur-Mer, the boats
dotting the sea and beach, and Papa Fregeau standing in the doorway of
the Bas Rhone, and Pierre Lachance trudging along the street with a
great pile of nets slung over his shoulders.
Father Anton shook his head slowly. It was very strange, the workings
of Providence. He had always thought to die in Bernay-sur-Mer. And
now already he had been in Paris a year! But the sacrifice was very
little, it mattered nothing at all, and if he had longings and dreams
of the days that were gone, he was still very happy here and should be
thankful to God for the wonderful work that had been given him to do;
only he remembered his dismay that morning, when, unannounced, the
bishop had come to Bernay-sur-Mer and had told him word had been
received from Paris that Monsieur Bliss, the millionaire American,
would give the enormous sum of five hundred thousand francs a year to
be distributed amongst the poor of Paris on the condition that he,
Father Anton, would undertake its distribution. And he remembered how
the bishop had explained that it had been suggested to Monsieur Bliss
that perhaps he, Father Anton, would not care to leave Bernay-sur-Mer
and his people there, and that there were others, younger men, nearer
at hand, who, under the guidance and direction of the ecclesiastical
authorities, would willingly and gladly undertake the work. And, above
all else, he remembered what monsignor had told him had been the reply
of Monsieur Bliss: "No; it isn't because Father Anton is a clergyman
that I want him, it's because he's the man I've been looking for," that
most astounding American had said. "There isn't any creed, or
religion, or sect, or anything like that in this--or any supervision.
What I'm after is practical results, and nothing else. I just want a
piece of bread to go where it is needed, and no questions asked. I've
always had the idea, but I didn't have the man. I've got him now.
Father Anton might not care to leave Bernay-sur-Mer--eh? H'm! There's
five hundred thousand francs a year at his disposal for the poor of
Paris--ask him if he thinks he can do any good with it?"
And so he had come to Paris. It was magnificent that--the generosity
of Monsieur Bliss! And Monsieur Bliss was amazing! He had found a
most beautiful little apartment, most beautifully furnished, in a very
fashionable part of the city, and with two servants already installed,
awaiting him. Imagine! It was impossible! How could one reach the
poor unless one lived amongst them? And to maintain an establishment
when--Father Anton sighed again--when even the enormous sum of five
hundred thousand francs was all too little!
He glanced around the room. Even as it was, his quarters must seem
ostentatious compared with the poverty about him--the Widow Migneault,
for example, in the rear room of the _troisieme etage_ above him. But
what could one do? There was no arguing with those Americans! They
had insisted on furnishing the place to their own satisfaction.
Father Anton's eyes returned to the glowing coals in the stove. He was
very happy because his work was the work that he, too, had dreamed of;
but one could not help thinking sometimes of Bernay-sur-Mer, and all
the lifelong friends, and the people who were so close to his heart.
And if he loved to picture them in his mind, and if there was perhaps a
little ache at the thought that he had left them, he was none the less
thankful to the _bon Dieu_ that he could do so much now with what was
left of his life.
What were they all doing in Bernay-sur-Mer to-night? What was
Marie-Louise doing? It was two months now since she had written him.
She did not write as often as she used to write. He shook his head
sadly. She had had her sorrow, poor Marie-Louise! What a boundless
store of love there was in that brave little heart! If only it would
be given to some worthy young fellow now--Father Anton wrinkled his
brows in deep thought, as though he would decide the matter on the
spot--say, Amide Dubois, who was a fine, honest lad; they would both be
very happy, and Marie-Louise would forget the sooner. Yes, certainly,
Amide Dubois would do admirably.
A clatter of hoofs, the rattle of wheels over the cobble stones on the
street, and the sudden cessation of both in front of the house, broke
in on the cure's musings. He rose slowly from his chair, and, going to
the window, peered out. His curiosity was rewarded only to the extent
of seeing a fiacre driving away again. It was rather strange, that!
Fiacres were not in the habit of stopping before any house in that
section of Paris. It would be some one for him then undoubtedly.
Monsieur Bliss, perhaps. No; not Monsieur Bliss, for was there not the
grand reception to-night that the Societe des Beaux-Arts was tendering
to Jean Laparde, and for which Monsieur Bliss had sent him a card, but
to which he was not going. It was to be a great affair at which the
President of the Republic was to be present, and a rusty _soutane_
would be not a little out of place there--and besides, the Jean of
Bernay-sur-Mer and the Jean of Paris were not the same. Perhaps one
should not let such thoughts come--but it was true.
Father Anton listened. Yes; he had been right. Some one was knocking
at the door now.
"Yes--come!" he called, and hurried hospitably across the room, as the
door opened--and stopped in stunned amazement--and ran forward again,
holding out his arms. "Marie-Louise!" he cried.
Half laughing, half crying, she was in his arms; her own around his
neck.
"Oh, Father Anton! Dear, dear Father Anton!" she was repeating over
and over again.
"Well, well--but, but--well, well," was all he could say--and kissed
her, and pressed her face against his shoulder, and patted her head.
And then he held her off to look at her. It was the same Marie-Louise,
with the same bright eyes, even if they were glistening now with tears;
the same Marie-Louise, just as though this was Bernay-sur-Mer and not
Paris at all, for there was no hat to hide the great black tresses of
hair, and there was just the same simple style of loose blouse and
ankle skirt that she always wore in the little village, and it might
well have been that he and she were there again, there in
Bernay-sur-Mer--only on the floor, where she had dropped it as she ran
to meet him, was a neatly tied-up little bundle that spoke of the long
journey.
"Well, well!" he ejaculated helplessly again, and closed the door, and
drew her to a chair and sat down, while she knelt affectionately on the
floor at his knees.
"Oh!" she said excitedly. "I did not think Paris could be so big a
place. And there was such a crowd in the station, and such a crowd
outside, and so many streets, and all the people I spoke to only shook
their heads when I asked for Father Anton, and--and then I began to be
a little frightened. And then--what do you think? Imagine! Was I not
grand? For a franc-fifty a _coccer_ said he would drive me to the
address, and--_me voici_! Did I not do well?"
"Splendidly!" he agreed approvingly. "But, Marie-Louise, I do not
understand. It is a great surprise. You did not write; you said
nothing about coming to Paris. Why did you not tell me you were
coming?"
She looked up at him merrily.
"Must I answer that--quite truthfully?"
"Of course!" he said, smiling indulgently.
"Well, then," she said demurely, "I was afraid you would say I should
not come--and now that I am here you cannot say it."
"Ah," he exclaimed, with mock severity, "that is a serious confession
you are making, Marie-Louise! So! And you thought I would not
approve, eh? What then has happened in Bernay-sur-Mer?"
"Nothing has happened," she answered--but now she looked away from him
as she spoke. "I have sold my house there."
"Nothing! Sold your house?" Father Anton began to take alarm. He
took Marie-Louise's face between his hands and forced her to look at
him. Yes, yes, the gaiety, the lightness of spirit was only
make-believe; the tears were more genuine than the smile that came
tremulously to her lips. "Marie-Louise," he said anxiously, "what is
it?"
"Nothing!" she said again. "Only--only I could not stay there any
longer"--and suddenly, in a flood of tears, she buried her face on the
old priest's knees.
"But, Marie-Louise--Marie-Louise!" he protested in helpless dismay--and
laid his hand soothingly on the bowed head.
She looked up in an instant, dashing the tears away angrily.
"I am a baby!" she cried, trying to laugh. "It was the journey, and
the new things, and seeing you again--but it is over now." Then, a
little hesitantly: "Tell me of Jean."
"Jean?" repeated Father Anton, startled. "Jean?" He looked at her
closely. Could it be that? And then, with a little gasp, as he seemed
to read the truth in her eyes: "It--it is Jean then, Marie-Louise, who
has brought you to Paris?"
"Yes," she answered, in a low voice.
The cure's face grew very grave.
"You have heard from him?"
She shook her head.
"I have never heard from Jean since the day he left
Bernay-sur-Mer"--she was plucking with her fingers at the skirt of the
priest's _soutane_.
There was a long silence, broken at last by the old priest's deep sigh.
"You still love Jean, my child?" he asked gently.
"I have always loved him," she said simply.
Father Anton fumbled with his spectacles. His heart had grown very
heavy. It seemed that the cruelest, saddest thing in the world had
happened.
"Tell me about him!" she demanded eagerly. "You see him every day,
father."
"I have not seen Jean in many months," he replied sadly.
"Not seen him!" she echoed in consternation. "But he is here--in
Paris--isn't he?"
"Yes; he is here," the cure said slowly. "But Paris is a big place,
and--and even old friends sometimes do not meet often."
"But tell me about him!" she persisted. "He has become a great man--a
very great, great man?"
"Yes," said Father Anton gravely, "he has become a great man--the
greatest perhaps in all of France." Then suddenly, laying his hands on
Marie-Louise's shoulders: "Marie-Louise, what is in your heart? Why
have you come here?"
"But I have told you, and you know," she said. "To see Jean."
The cure'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 roue 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--"
Father Anton drew her gently back against his knees. Yes; he was
beginning to understand--that the problem was not to be settled so
easily as by the mere expedient of telling Marie-Louise she must go
back to Bernay-sur-Mer. Those small clenched hands, those tight lips
were eloquent of finality. It became simply a matter of accepting a
fact. He might insist a dozen times that she should go. It would be
useless. She would not go! The old priest's brows furrowed in
anxiety. This love for Jean was still first in the girl's heart.
Words, arguments, were of no avail against the longing that was supreme
with her, that had brought her on the long journey across all France.
But her love was the love that pictured the frank, strong, simple
fisherman of Bernay-sur-Mer. If she should see Jean as he really was!
If she should see for herself the change in him, the abandon of his
life; and, too, see the glittering circles in which he moved! The
first would dispel her love for him; the second would show her in any
case the utter futility of it. As long as she held this love, that he
had hoped and prayed she had forgotten, it spoiled her life. It could
only bring her misery, unhappiness and sorrow. It would hurt cruelly,
this disenchantment; but it would save her, this poor child, whom he
loved as he would have loved a daughter of his own. Yes; if she should
see Jean as he really was, see him intimately enough to realise the
truth of the life he was leading! But how could that be brought
about--and at the same time protect her and keep her _safe_?
She rose slowly to her feet, and stood before him, her hands still
tightly shut at her sides.
"I was so sure, so sure that you would help me!" she said miserably.
And then, in pleading abandon, she flung out her arms to him. "Oh,
won't you, Father Anton, won't you? Won't you try to understand? It
can do no harm, only--only it is all my life--just to see him, to be
near him for a little while, to know that it has all been a wonderful
thing for him--and he will never know, I will not let him know."
The cure's hands clasped and unclasped nervously.
"Would you promise that, Marie-Louise? That you would not speak to
him, that you would not let him know you were here in Paris?"
She answered him almost passionately, in hurt pride.
"Oh, how little you understand!" she cried. "Do you think that my love
is like that? Do you think that for anything in the world I would
force myself into his life? Do you think that is why I came? Yes; I
will promise that!"
"Well, well," said Father Anton soothingly, "we will see. But
first--eh?--a little supper? You are tired, my little Marie-Louise,
and hungry after the long journey. Come now, you will help me! We
will make a little omelette, and boil the coffee, and pretend that we
are in Bernay-sur-Mer--eh?"
He began to bustle around the room, setting out bread and cheese from
the cupboard, and putting the coffee-pot upon the stove--and presently
they sat down to the simple meal.
Marie-Louise ate very little; and finally, when she pushed her plate
away, the tears were in her eyes again.
"I cannot eat any more," she said. "I--oh, Father Anton, you said that
you would see. You meant that--that you _would_ help me, didn't you?"
It was plain, it was very plain that nothing would distract her for a
moment! Father Anton sighed again, and got up from his chair, and
began to pace the room. He had been turning a plan over and over in
his mind while he had watched her so anxiously during the meal. It was
strange how readily it had come to him, that plan! A monitor within
whispered the suggestion that perhaps it had come readily because it
was deception! The cure passed his hand in a troubled way back and
forth through his white hair. He had seen little of Jean--it was
perhaps because he reminded Jean of Bernay-sur-Mer and the past that
Jean was anxious to forget, that Jean had gradually come, in manner
more than words, to intimate that the old friendship was distasteful.
But if latterly he had seen little of Jean, at least when he had first
come to Paris his visits to the studio had been frequent enough to
enable him to form an intimate acquaintance with Hector, the red-haired
concierge of Jean's studio and apartment, and with madame, Hector's
wife. Nor had he permitted this intimacy to wane. He could not forget
that he had loved Jean, and through these good people he still kept his
interest alive. It was but a few days ago that Hector had complained
that the work was too much for his wife alone, that after some nights
at the studio with a gay company the morning presented a debacle to
clear up that was a day's work in itself. It was too much for her; and
they came often, those nights.
Father Anton glanced at Marie-Louise. She was still watching him, a
sort of pitiful, eager expectancy in her face. His eyes fell to the
floor, as he continued to pace up and down. It could be arranged.
Jean rose very late. Marie-Louise could go early in the mornings to
tidy up the studio and the _atelier_. He could tell Hector she was a
charge of his, an honest girl to be trusted, who would do the work for
a few francs; and Hector in turn could obtain Jean's consent.
Marie-Louise would see for herself the life Jean led--and, besides,
Hector and his wife were not tongue-tied! But it was a terribly cruel
thing to do! The old priest's hands clasped and unclasped again in
genuine distress. It was terribly cruel! But it was little
Marie-Louise, whom he loved so tenderly, whose future was at stake. It
must not always be as it was to-day--sadness and hopelessness for the
brave young heart that should be so full of joy and life.
He halted before Marie-Louise. Yes, it was the right thing to do;
there was no other way; she must be disillusioned; she should see
Jean's life at the studio; and to-night at the great reception she
should see Jean himself. Only his heart was very heavy--it was so hard
a thing to do.
"Listen, Marie-Louise," he said abruptly. "I will help you, but it is
on the condition to which you have agreed--that Jean is in no way to
know that you are here. I will arrange with his concierge that very
early in the mornings, before Jean is up and when nobody is there, you
shall have the care of his studio and _atelier_, so you will be able to
see all you want to of his work; and to the concierge you are simply a
charge of mine who is in need of the few francs you will earn."
"Oh, Father Anton, how good you are!"--she had jumped up joyfully from
her chair, and was in his arms again. "But I do not want the money. I
have plenty--from my house, you know."
"But if you took no money, they would not understand why you would
work," explained Father Anton hurriedly. The depth of his duplicity
was very great! The gentle soul of Father Anton was conscience
stricken at her gratitude, her innocence. If he had not gone so far he
would retreat. She was crying in his arms. Never before had he known
what it was not to be able to look another in the eyes. He was glad
that Marie-Louise's head was hidden on his shoulder for he could not
have looked at her. Father Anton felt himself a criminal. It was not
a role that lay lightly upon him.
"And Jean himself," she whispered. "When shall I see Jean?"
Father Anton coughed nervously.
"There--there is a reception to-night," he said hesitantly. He coughed
again. "For Jean. You might see him there perhaps--from the gallery.
I--I have a card."
She sprang away from him, with a quick exclamation of excitement.
"Oh, come then!" she cried impulsively, and caught his hand to pull him
toward the door.
Father Anton turned away his head. Tears had sprung to his eyes. He
was indeed a criminal--the criminal of the ages! But if it would save
Marie-Louise! Ah, yes, he must keep that thought always before him.
He looked at her again, as he fumbled once more with his spectacles.
"Yes, yes; at once!" he said mechanically. "But"--he was staring at
her now in sudden consternation--"but you cannot go like that! Have
you no other clothes?"
She pointed at the little bundle on the floor.
He shook his head.
"No hat? No coat?"
"No-o," she said tremulously, as though she sensed an impending tragedy.
"But this is not Bernay-sur-Mer, Marie-Louise!" he said, in concern.
"You cannot go about dressed like that in Paris; and, besides, you
would freeze, my child."
She looked at him in silence--a sort of pitiful despair, mingling
bitter disappointment and helpless dependence, in her eyes, in the
expression of her face.
"Tut, tut!" murmured Father Anton, pulling at his under lip. And then
quickly: "But wait--wait! We shall see!" And he ran into the other
room.
There were always clothes there--for his poor. The rich people, the
friends of Monsieur and Mademoiselle Bliss were always sending him
their old things for distribution amongst his poor. Mademoiselle Bliss
had sent him a package that afternoon. He remembered that there was a
long cloak and a hat amongst the other things. Ah, yes; here they
were! He held them up to look at them in the light from the doorway of
the connecting rooms. They had strange notions about "old things," the
rich! These, for example--he turned them about in the light--were as
good as new. They bought clothes one day, the rich, wore them the
afternoon, and gave them to him the next morning--because overnight
there had been created a new style! Father Anton smiled at his little
conceit. But it was almost literally true. He had seen Myrna Bliss
wearing these very things only a few days ago--the same black velvet
cloak, and the same black velvet turban with the little white cockade.
At least, he supposed it was a cockade! Ah, well--he shrugged his
shoulders--his poor were the gainers!
"Here, Marie-Louise!" he called out, returning into the front room.
"You may have these, child."
"Oh!" she exclaimed, as she took them. Her eyes widened. "Oh--they
are pretty! But--but, Father Anton, where did you get them? They are
new."
"No, not quite," he smiled; "but new enough, I think, to last you all
the winter. They were"--he stopped suddenly, in gentle tactfulness.
Marie-Louise knew Myrna Bliss--it might cause her diffidence if she
were aware that the cloak and hat had been mademoiselle's. "They were
sent to me by the rich people amongst many other things," he amended,
"to be distributed where"--he smiled again--"where I think they will do
most good. So now they are yours. Put them on, and we will go."
"Oh, Father Anton!" she cried again, in wonder at the sudden luxury
that was hers--and slipped on the cloak; and ran to the cure's shaving
glass, which was the only semblance of a mirror in evidence, to set the
turban daintily upon her head. "Dear, dear Father Anton--how good you
are!"
But Father Anton did not answer. He was brushing his threadbare black
overcoat--and making a very poor business of it. There was a great
lump in his throat that refused to go either up or down--and he brushed
continuously at one sleeve, because that was all he could see through
the sudden mist that had come before his eyes. And then, as he caught
her gazing at him, he put on the coat hurriedly.
"Yes, yes," he said hastily. "But we are all ready, are we not--eh?
Come then, Marie-Louise, we will go."
And presently they were on the street--and somehow to Father Anton the
crisp cold of the night was very grateful, preferable for once to the
soft warmth of his far-away South, since the hot flushes now kept
coming and burning in his cheeks, as he walked abstractedly along. And
they were silent for a little while, until a pressure of her fingers on
his arm aroused him, and he turned his head to look at her. Her
cheeks, too, he could see even in the murky light from the street
lamps, were flushed, and the dark eyes were very bright.
"Couldn't--couldn't we hurry a little, Monsieur le Cure?" she suggested
timidly.
"Hurry? Ah--you are cold!" he said contritely, and quickened his step.
"No," she answered. "I--it is only that it might be over--that we
might be too late."
The words brought an added twinge to the already sore and overburdened
soul of Father Anton. It was the heart of Marie-Louise that spoke, the
heart that had no room but only for Jean. Ah, yes; but did he not
understand that already! Had she not come across all France for Jean?
But that was not all! How ignorant of this great world-city, its life,
its customs, its fineness, its sordidness her words proclaimed her to
be--how dependent they proclaimed her to be! But did he not know that
too? How great indeed had been his own bewilderment, and confusion,
and dismay when he had first come to Paris a year ago--even he who was
accustomed to journeying, for had he not gone almost once a year from
Bernay-sur-Mer to Marseilles? How well he remembered it--but, tut,
tut--of what avail was that? This was a vastly different matter, a
very serious matter. Marie-Louise was a woman, so young, so beautiful,
and in her ignorance, in her ingenuousness which was so marked a trait
because she was so purely innocent, she--ah!--he found himself asking
the _bon Dieu_ to watch very carefully over Marie-Louise; and, very
earnestly, with sad misgivings, as a corollary to that prayer, to
forgive him if he were doing wrong in betraying the very innocence, the
trust and simple confidence for which he asked protection for her from
others.
"Father Anton, will--will we be late?" she ventured, evidently alarmed
into the belief, since he had not replied, that so dire a misfortune
was even more than a possibility.
And then he answered her very gravely.
"No, Marie-Louise. You need have no fear. It will only have begun;
and even if it were midnight we should still be in time. Affairs like
this are for all the evening, you see. Indeed, before going there, now
that I come to think of it, perhaps we had better see about finding
lodgings for you first. I know several very estimable families in this
neighbourhood who would be glad to give you a room for a small sum, and
you would be quite close to me, and--"
"But could we not do that afterwards?" she interposed quickly.
"Why, yes, of course, afterwards--if we do not stay too long at the
reception," Father Anton acquiesced. "You would rather do that,
Marie-Louise?"
"Yes!" she said--and the word came tensely--and she pulled impulsively
upon his arm.
And so then they hurried along, and after a little time the streets
grew brighter, better lighted, and from streets became great
boulevards, and from an occasional passer-by they were in the midst of
many people where one must needs elbow one's way to get along; but
Marie-Louise, save in a subconscious way that brought no concrete sense
of meaning, saw none of this--she saw only Jean again, the sturdy,
rugged figure that seemed to stand so clearly outlined now before her,
so real, so actual, so living, as he had been that night when he had
borne Gaston up the path in his strong arms; and the roar of the
traffic upon the streets was as the roar of that mighty storm and the
thunder of the sea breaking so pitilessly, so unceasingly upon the
rocks. And Father Anton spoke to her, pointing to this and that as
they went along--but she did not hear the cure. She was listening only
to another voice. "In just a little minute I shall see Jean ... I
shall see Jean ... I shall see Jean," her soul said. "I shall see
Jean."
And then she was standing before a great building, and the building was
ablaze with lights, and carriage after carriage, automobile after
automobile was drawing up before a strange sort of canopy where even
the street itself was laid with crimson carpet, and out of the
carriages and the cars poured a constant stream of wonderfully dressed,
fur-clad women and their escorts. And suddenly she drew back with a
start. What had she done? She had stepped upon the soft carpet and in
under the canopy--and a man bewilderingly covered with gold lace, who
could be no less than a Marshal of France, though he seemed so effusive
and polite as he opened the carriage doors to welcome each new arrival,
was fixing her sternly with his eyes.
"Come, Marie-Louise," prompted Father Anton.
She felt the blood leave her face, and she drew very close to Father
Anton, clinging tightly to his arm. How fast her breath came! There
was laughter, merriment around her; they pressed against her, they
touched her, these wonderfully dressed people. How soft the carpet
was! How one's feet sank into it! It was a sacrilege that she should
walk upon it! How that constant murmur of voices rose and fell, rose
and fell! What were they saying? It seemed that she should know!
What was it? Yes, yes! "Jean Laparde ... Jean Laparde ... Jean
Laparde." From in front, from behind her, on either side, on every
tongue was the name of Jean Laparde. And it thrilled her, and her soul
in a clarion echo caught up the refrain. "Jean Laparde ... Jean
Laparde ... Jean Laparde!" And it seemed as though a thousand emotions
surging upon her were welded together and massed and made into one, and
that one was comparable to none she had ever known before because it
was too great, and overpowering, and bewildering to understand. Only
now she could lift up her head, and the blood was rushing proudly to
her cheeks again.
And now they were in a great marble vestibule, and Father Anton was
handing a card to an attendant, and speaking to the man.
"But Monsieur le Cure has full _entree_--to the floor," the man replied.
She did not catch Father Anton's answer--but the attendant was bowing
and speaking again.
"But certainly, monsieur--as Monsieur le Cure desires. To the right,
monsieur."
And then there were stairs, beautiful wide marble stairs, and the press
of people was left behind, for there seemed to be but few who climbed
the stairs; and then--and then--she was in a balcony, and below
her--ah, she could not see--it was all blurred before her--and there
seemed a great fear upon her, for her heart pounded so hard and so
fiercely. And then, strangely, as a mist rises from the sea, it began
to clear away, that blur from before her eyes, and myriad lights from a
massive chandelier, that was suspended from a great dome overhead,
played on the bare, flashing shoulders of women on the floor below her,
played on the jewels that adorned coiffures and necks, played on
glittering uniforms, on a scene magnificent and splendid--and focused,
as her eyes fixed and held, on that one outstanding figure, the figure
that was like to the figure of a demi-god, the only figure, the only
one that she saw now in all that vast assemblage, who stood erect,
strong and massive-shouldered, the black hair, a little longer now,
flung in careless abandon back from the broad, white forehead. It was
Jean! It was Jean!
"Jean!" she whispered--and her hand stole into Father Anton's. "Jean!"
And he was not changed--only that short, pointed beard, that seemed to
add a something, that made him more imposing. It was Jean, the same
Jean--only there was a grace, an ease, a command, a kingship in his
poise as he stood there, and--yes--yes--they came--one after the
other--the men, the women--and bowed before him.
"Do you remember Monsieur and Mademoiselle Bliss?" Father Anton said
gently. "See--they are there beside Jean. And that tall man to whom
they are talking is a very famous statesman for one so young. His name
is Paul Valmain."
They did not interest her. There was only Jean. And she could not
look long enough at him. There was music playing somewhere, softly,
very softly, scarcely audible above the sound of so many voices all
talking at once, voices that ascended in a subdued roar like the sound
of a shell that one held to one's ear. She tried to think, and she
could not. Afterwards she would think. Now she could only look.
Father Anton touched her arm. Was it already time to go? No, no--not
yet! Not yet--for a little while! She had come so far, so long a way
just for this--to see Jean.
"It is the President of the Republic coming, Marie-Louise--see!
Listen!"
There was tumult about her. Those in the gallery around her were
clapping their hands, waving their handkerchiefs; and the music she had
heard playing so softly crashed suddenly into the strains of that song
of glory, immortal, undying, that was cradled in the very soul of
France itself--the Marseillaise. And as it fired the blood, that
melody, martial, stirring, that men had died for, ay, and women, too,
the outburst around her rose to hysterical heat, and thunders of
applause rolled and reverberated through the room that was bigger than
any room she had ever seen or dreamed of. And they were calling Jean's
name again--and the President, the great President was there with Jean.
"Jean Laparde! Jean Laparde! _Vive_ Jean Laparde!"
She could not see any more. Her eyes were blinded with tears now, and
they were proud tears, and they were glad tears, and they were
wondering tears that she could not comprehend herself. Jean's beacon!
Had the _bon Dieu_ permitted her to be that in a little way, given it
to her to have helped just a little, to have had just a little share in
bringing Jean to this great moment, this wonderful triumph? Jean's
beacon! How vividly that scene of the years ago came back, when she
had told Jean he did not belong to her--and reliving that scene, here
in the presence of its great fulfilment, she spoke aloud unconsciously.
"It is true! He does not belong to me. He belongs to France!"
And Father Anton, because he did not understand, because it seemed that
the disillusionment must have been so much more complete and so much
more cruel and hard to bear than he had feared it would be, and because
her renunciation was accepted so bravely, turned away his head and did
not answer.
And Marie-Louise's fingers closed in a tense, involuntary pressure over
Father Anton's hand--and she spoke again.
"He belongs to France!"
And then, after another moment:
"Take me--back now--Father Anton, please."
-- II --
26 RUE VANITAIRE
Myrna Bliss tapped petulantly with the toe of her small shoe on the
floor of the limousine, glanced at the diamond-encircled bracelet watch
on her wrist, remarked more or less abstractedly that it was a minute
or so after five o'clock, and stared through the plate glass windows at
the backs of her liveried chauffeur and footman. The reception of the
night before had, so far as she was concerned, been marked by two
incidents, which, at the present moment, were very fully occupying her
thoughts.
It had required all her tact and ingenuity to avert a declaration from
Paul Valmain, which would have been a disaster, because any declaration
was a disaster until that moment arrived when one reached the point
where one began to fear that horrible word "passee" and it became
necessary to accept the inevitable--and marry. A declaration, as any
one could see, whether it was accepted or refused, had its
consequences--one's proprietorship in a man became either restricted to
that one man alone, which in turn was very like locking one's self in a
cage and handing over the key; or it was lost altogether. And Paul
Valmain was almost as much run after by her set as Jean Laparde!
Fancy! Only thirty, a bachelor--and already the leader of his
political party! Yes, decidedly, besides being amazingly handsome and
amazingly brilliant, Paul was a figure in France!
The man was passionately, madly in love with her; and so was
Jean--which went without saying! Imagine! The two lions of social
Paris! Nothing, not an affair, was complete without them--and she had
only to lift a finger as to two slaves! Therefore social Paris was
utterly and completely under her domination. She, literally, was
Paris. It was very plain! So long as she exercised a proprietorship
over both of them, Paris was at her feet. It was not a question of
choice between them--not at all. Jean was the lion, so much so that
she could even hold court with Jean alone; but with both, her position
was impregnable. The trouble was--her brows puckered into anxious
little furrows--that at the first opportunity Paul would renew the
attack. It was very nice to have Paris at one's feet, but it was quite
another matter to keep it there. Paul, of course, was the more
difficult of the two to keep in hand. Jean, because he had never
seemed to shake off entirely that diffidence toward her born of
Bernay-sur-Mer, she had so far been able to manage quite simply,
only--her eyes shifted from the chauffeur's back to the toe of her
shoe, and her foot ceased its petulant tapping on the floor--that was
the other incident of last night.
It had happened just after the arrival of the President. Jean had
sought her out. She remembered the heightened colour in his cheeks,
the sort of nervous brilliance in his eyes. He had been drunk--drunk
with the wealth, the glamour, the power that was his; intoxicated with
the fame, the adulation, the triumph of the moment. He was a glutton
for that--for fame. There was very little else that mattered to Jean.
He was the supreme type of egoist. She could dissect Jean very coolly
and with precision, she thought.
"The studio, to-morrow afternoon at five, Myrna--don't fail," he had
said--and had passed on.
There had been a certain air of authority in his tones--to which she
had promptly taken exception, and to which, in an annoying and
persistent way, she still took exception. Furthermore, it conveyed a
possible, and alarming hint that his docility perhaps was wearing thin.
Well, that would never do at all! She was going, of course, to the
studio now---but she would take care of Jean! Five o'clock, he had
said. She would be a little late--as she intended to be. At half past
five she had asked Paul Valmain and a choice circle of the younger set
to drop in at 26 Rue Vanitaire, as a graceful little courtesy, so to
speak, to congratulate Jean on his triumph of the night before! The
grey eyes held a smile in which mockery and merriment were mingled.
One's defences should always be in order!
The small shoe began to tap on the floor of the car again. What a
short time--what a long time those two years had been since sleepy,
anaesthetised Bernay-sur-Mer! Jean had attracted her then because he
had been a "new" sensation--and he had attracted her ever since because
he continued to be "the" sensation. But attraction and love were quite
different, were they not? Success after success, triumph after triumph
had been his. It had been astounding, stupefying, magnificent! At
first it had been the inner circle of devotees of art, such as those
who had gone to Bernay-sur-Mer, who had hailed him; then, in furious
and bewildering sequence, Paris, then France, then Europe--and,
equally, so her letters told her, he was the rage in America. None
made comparisons--there were no comparisons to make. The man towered,
stood alone, without rival, as the greatest sculptor of the age. And,
in a sense, he had not begun. Men like old Bidelot and her father said
that, stupendous as it already was, his genius had not yet attained its
full development; that, marvellous as was the power, force and realism
of his conceptions, the exquisite beauty of his execution, there still
remained an intangible something yet to be achieved.
Myrna shrugged her pretty shoulders.
"Ah, just that _tout petit chose_!" old Bidelot called it. "So
fleeting, so evanescent, so--so--" and he would wave his arms like a
grand opera conductor. "Soul," her father called it, in his turn.
"The boy hasn't lived enough yet. He'll get it, and then--well,
there's only one word to describe it--immortal!"
Myrna made a wry grimace. What was the use of all that? What did they
want? And what rubbish! A man whose work was incomparable, that all
the world was going crazy over! And what, after all, did old Bidelot
and her father know about it, anyway? Old Bidelot, for example,
couldn't make a piece of clay resemble a doughnut, except for the hole,
if he tried for a thousand years. And as for her father--Myrna choked
a laugh.
She glanced at her watch again--and then, quickly, out of the window.
It was ten minutes past five, and the car was slowing up in front of
the studio. In twenty minutes the others would be here--she had told
_them_ to be prompt. Some day, it was very possible, she might marry
Jean--but not yet. She was far too well contented with her life as it
was! She had managed Jean and his tentative outbursts--for his
docility, as she dubbed it, had not been mere tameness--with perfect
success for two years; and now, if, as she was somewhat inclined to
surmise, his actions of last evening presaged another, she was quite
capable of managing that--for twenty minutes.
She alighted from the car, and, instructing her chauffeur that he need
not wait, ran up the steps of the sort of stoop that was over the
concierge's door and apartment beneath. Hector's red head and
doll's-blue eyes, for once, a little to her surprise, were not in
evidence on the arrival of a car. The front door, however, was not
locked. She pushed it open, entered the hallway, crossed to the door
of the salon, and knocked. There was no answer. There was, however,
nothing strange about that--Jean, probably, was in the studio proper,
the _atelier_ beyond. Well, she would surprise him!
She opened the salon door softly, closed it softly, stepped into the
centre of the large, magnificently appointed room, whose decorations
and remodelling she and her father had planned; and, calmly unbuttoning
her long glove, stood looking around her. And then her fingers held
quite rigidly on a glove button. She had not seen him as she had
entered! Jean was rising from a divan behind her, near the door. Her
arm, still extended, the other hand still on the glove button, she
turned her head and shoulders like a statue on a pivot, to watch him in
amazement. Without a word, he had stepped swiftly to the door, locked
it--and now he was putting the key in his pocket.
"Jean, what are you doing?" she exclaimed sharply.
He laughed a little--in a low way. It was the first sound he had made.
She stared at him, a thrill upon her that she could not quite
define--it was not fear; it was more an uncomfortable disquiet, in
which surprise and bewilderment were dominant. But now, as he faced
her, she noticed that the same high colour was in his cheeks, the same
nervous brilliancy was in his eyes as had been there the night
before--and he was not even dressed, he who was so punctilious in the
late afternoons in that regard. It was as though he might have but
thrown aside his big sculptor's over-dress, for he was in loose white
shirt with flowing tie, and belted trousers. Usually she liked him
like that; it seemed to accentuate, bring out, unfetter the splendid
physique of the man; but now--she shrugged her shoulders with
well-affected composure. Myrna Bliss was too self-poised to be swept
from her feet by any situation. Jean was acting very strangely! What
was the matter with him? She stripped off her gloves coolly, and
tossed her outer wraps on a chair.
"You have been working long hours to-day perhaps, Jean"--her voice
expressed cold disapproval--"you are not dressed yet."
Jean's hand swept the great shocks of hair back from his forehead, and
again he laughed in the same low way.
"I have not been working to-day. I have been waiting--for five
o'clock."
What did he mean? She was genuinely disturbed now. Had he been
drinking--after the reception--through the night--and since? He was
certainly not himself! It was outrageous, if it were not in fun, that
he had locked the door! She walked across the room to the bell-cord
and pulled it. The bell rang clamorously in the concierge's apartment
below.
"I will have Hector prepare some coffee, while you are upstairs
dressing, Jean," she said imperiously. "Now, go and dress. You are
behaving in a most peculiar manner."
He made no answer--only stood there looking at her, his head thrown
back on his powerful shoulders, his eyes still abnormally bright,
though the flush was receding now from the strong, handsome face, that,
as it grew white, grew very set. Where was Hector? She pulled the
cord again. Again the bell jangled in the concierge's below.
"Hector and Madame Mi-mi, his wife, are on a holiday--with five francs
apiece in their pockets--at the Bois, I think--to celebrate last
night"--he jerked out the words in a colourless, even way.
She noticed that his lips twitched, that the knuckles of his hands were
white because his hands at his sides were so tightly clenched. He had
sent Hector and madame away--she was quite alone in the place with him.
What did it mean? Jean had never been like this before. But she was
at least quite mistress of herself! She drew herself up, walked back
across the room, picked up her gloves and wraps, and returned to the
door.
"Open that door!" she commanded levelly. "What do you mean by acting
like this? How dare you act like this? Are you mad--have you lost
your senses? Do you realise what you are doing?"
He laughed outright now--with sudden harshness, bitterly.
"Mad?" he repeated in a choked voice. "Yes; I am mad! I have been mad
for two years--and I have been a fool. I am mad now--but I am no
longer a fool. I am going to know now--I am going to have an answer
now--this afternoon--before you leave this room. When are you going to
marry me?"
"Marry you?"--she started back.
"Don't do that!" he flung out passionately. "Don't _act_! It is no
surprise, that--eh? You know! Your soul knows! I love you--I have
loved you since that first time on the bridge, you remember, don't
you--that bridge--when your eyes turned my blood to fire? You knew it
then--you know it now!"
Once she had told herself, once in those early days before familiarity,
intimacy perhaps, had blunted the eager edge of curiosity and interest
with which she had studied her new sensation much as one might study a
specimen under a microscope, that the man was a smouldering volcano,
the soul of him elemental and turbulent. It had grown dim and hazy,
that little mental note of classification--but she remembered it now.
It was true! Why had she ever lost sight of it? What would he do?
She was not afraid, only--only--he must not have the mastery, even for
a single instant. There had been eruptions before--little ones. She
had always controlled him--he was just like some great, big animal--one
must never let go the leash! And, besides, some day, probably, she
_would_ marry him!
She laughed now in her turn--shortly.
"And do you think, do you imagine, Monsieur Jean"--her voice rang
sharply through the room--"that you will attain your object any the
more readily by acting like this?"
"Yes; I think so!"--Jean was stepping toward her, reaching out his arms
to grasp her.
"_Jean_!"--she retreated backward, with a startled cry. The man's face
was positively livid, the eyes were burning into hers.
"I love you!"--his voice was hoarse, shrill, out of control. "I love
you! My God, I love you! Do you think that you can own a man's soul
and not pay the price? You made me love you! In a thousand ways you
asked for my love--in a thousand ways you--"
"Jean!" she cried at him again--half running now back across the room.
"Yes, you did!" he shouted passionately, following her. "Yes, you
did--or you have been playing with me! But if you have been playing
with me, the playing is ended now, do you understand? It is ended!
And whether you have been playing or not, you have made me love you,
and you are mine--you belong to me--you shall be mine! That is how
much I love you! You are mine--_mine_! You shall tell that cursed
Paul Valmain to go about his business! Do you understand that, too? I
saw you last night!"
She caught at the straw--as, flinging aside the portieres in her
retreat, she backed through the archway into the _atelier_.
"Ah, it is that, then? It is Paul Valmain then, that is the cause of
this! Well, at least, Paul Valmain is incapable of such actions!"
"There is much that Paul Valmain is incapable of!" he answered
furiously. "And one thing is that he, or any other man, shall ever
have you!"
She glanced hurriedly over her shoulder. It was a large room, the
_atelier_, larger even than the salon, but she was almost across it
now, and the huge statue of Jean's "_Fille du Regiment_," his "Daughter
of the Regiment," his newest work, that was nearing completion, blocked
the way.
"Jean," she burst out desperately, "what is it? What do you mean?
There is no need for this! There--there was no need to lock that door,
to send Hector away! Do you know what you are doing? Have you lost
your reason to treat me like this? Have you forgotten what--what you
owe to my father--that--that I am his daughter?"
"Ah, you will twist and wriggle, and you will not answer, eh?"--the
words seemed to scorch and burn on his lips. "It is always like this!
You evade, you elude, you ask other questions. You know why I have
done this! I have told you. I owe your father nothing--nothing! Do
you hear--nothing! It is he who owes! Ask him! They are his own
words come true. Ask him what the name of Jean Laparde has done for
him! He is not merely a paltry millionaire to-day--he is a famous man!
The debt is paid a thousandfold--even to the money, franc for franc,
that he has spent. You know well enough why I have done this! It is
not like the days of Bernay-sur-Mer when the poor fisherman dared only
dream and smother the passion in him like some mean, crawling thing,
and thank the God who made him, and hold himself blessed for the crumbs
that were flung to him--a smile from those lips of yours--a finger
touch upon the sleeve, when it seemed all heaven and hell could not
keep my arms back from you! I have waited! I let you put me off
until--until the hour should come when no man or woman in the world
should put off Jean Laparde! Until--yes, _sacre nom de
misericorde_!--until I should be able to forget, forget, forget, do you
understand, _forget_ that I was once a poor fisherman when I looked at
you. Well, it has come, that hour! What tribute in all the history of
France was ever paid to man as was paid to me last night? _Sacre nom_,
it is no fisherman that speaks to you now! It is I--Jean Laparde, the
sculptor of France! I am rich! Kings, princes, the nobles, the world
comes to my door and begs--do you hear, _begs_ the entree! What more
do you ask? My God"--he was clutching at his cravat, loosening it from
his throat, as though it were choking him--"you shall no longer put off
my love!"
She had halted--because she could retreat no further. The face of the
statue, a life-size figure of a girl in tattered uniform, the corsage
torn, the hair dishevelled, the form crouched a little as though
pressing forward in the face of mighty stress, the hands beating at a
drum that was slung from the shoulders, looked down upon her. And it
seemed to bring quick, instant, another weapon to her hand. That
_something_ in the face, those lips! It was in every piece of work he
had ever done. All talked of it, all saw it--and wondered. A strange
exhilaration was upon her. She was not afraid. In his passion,
passion like this, Jean was superb. To have aroused passion such as
this in a man was as to have drunk of wine! But to yield?
Never--until the day when she was quite ready to yield. To master him,
hold him, curb him--yes, a thousand times! His face was close to hers,
his breath was hot upon her cheeks, his hands were stretching out for
her again. She pushed him away violently.
"You talk of love!" she flashed out. "What do you know of love? What
_kind_ of love could you have for me?" She swept her hand around,
pointing to the statue. "Who is this secret model that all Paris talks
about--that everybody has been talking about for months--that lives in
the face and always in the lips of everything you do? That though the
face of one statue is like the face of no other one, yet she is there!
You talk to me of love! At what strange hours does she come here, that
no one sees her? How does she come? Where do you keep her?"
For an instant, Jean drew back, staring at her wildly--but only for an
instant. The next, he had caught her arm in an iron grip.
"You are clever!" he whispered hoarsely. "You are too _damned_ clever!
You are at it again, eh--to sidetrack me? It has been like that for
two years now--always in some way, by some trick, you put me off! But
you will put me off no more. You can play no trick here. We are
alone, and I will not be tricked. It is not true what you say! There
is no model like that! It is a lie!" His voice swelled until it rang
out in a strong, vibrant note. "The model is here--here in my
heart--in my brain! That face and form is the face and form of France!
It is the womanhood of France, the glory of my country! No man before
has ever conceived it. It was for me--for me--Jean Laparde--to do! Do
you hear--it is the face and the womanhood of France! You do not
understand--you are not a Frenchwoman. And you do not understand
me--who am a Frenchman!" His voice dropped low again, hoarse in its
passion. "You have gone too far!" His grip on her arm tightened.
"You love me, or you have played with me--it is all the same! The two
years have made you mine! You _are_ mine--now--now! You would starve
my love, would you, you wonderful, beautiful, glorious woman!"
He was drawing her closer and closer to him. Passion, loosened, freed,
rocking the man to the soul, was in eyes and face, in the half parted
lips, in the short, quick, panting breath. And for a moment,
fascinated, she was lifeless; then with all her strength she wrenched
and strove to free herself.
"You would not _dare_!" she gasped. "You would not--"
"Dare!"--the word was a wild, hollow laugh. "Dare! Does a man dare to
save his soul from torment? See--your lips! Your lips! Ah, God--your
lips!"
She was his--_his_! She was in his arms, crushed to him! His--as his
mad desire had bade him crush her in his arms long since in that other
life in Bernay-sur-Mer; his--as he had dreamed of crushing her in his
arms, of crushing her ravishing form close to him in the dreams of the
days and nights, every day and night since then. It was all blind
madness, a delirium of ecstasy. How warm and hot those lips of hers
from which his soul was drinking! God, how she struggled! But her
lips--her lips were his--his to rain his kisses of passionate thirst
upon--and upon her face, and upon her eyes, and upon her hair. If only
she would not struggle so, that he might smother his face, bury it in
the intoxicating fragrance of that hair!
She beat at him with her fists. He could not hold her still. She was
strong, strong as some young lioness. They were swaying around the
room, now this way, new that--and now through the portieres into the
salon. She made no cry--how could she cry?--he strangled the cries
unborn upon her lips with his kisses! Ah, he had her now--she was
passive at last--her head was bent far back in his arms. Yes,
now--now! To feel the life, the heart throb, the pulse of that lithe
form against his own--to hold his lips to hers in a kiss long as all
eternity--to--
And then in a numbed, blank way he was standing back and staring at
her. Footsteps, laughter, voices were coming from the street outside,
coming up the steps--and, where it had seemed that her strength was
gone, in a paroxysm of terror, of desperation, she had torn herself
away from him. And now--yes--her face was as white as death itself.
What made it like that? What had happened? He passed his hand dazedly
across his eyes.
"Quick! That door!" she breathed frantically. "They must not find it
_locked_!" She snatched up her outer wraps, slipped them on, and, with
a most marvellous display of composure, assumed a languid attitude in a
chair. Outwardly, Myrna Bliss was quite calm and undisturbed again.
"Quick! The door--_quick_!" she whispered.
The door! Some one was coming! Yes, of course! His brain was
reeling, stupefied. The door! He fumbled in his pocket for the key,
and in a mechanical way turned it in the lock. And then they were
trooping into the salon, a dozen of them, men and women.
"Wasn't it a charming idea!" some one exclaimed in effusive greeting.
"But the credit is all Myrna's, of course. We've come, you know, to--"
Jean did not hear any more. With a start, he raised his head and
glanced down the room. Myrna's idea--this! A little twisted smile of
understanding came to Jean's lips. Self-possessed, animated, she was
already the centre of a group where everybody was talking at once.
And then Paul Valmain's pale, aristocratic, esthetic face came before
him. The man was bowing, murmuring polite conventionalities; only
somehow the man's eyes, instead of meeting his, seemed to be set with
peculiar fixedness upon some object. Automatically, Jean followed
their direction with his own--to his own hand hanging at his side.
The door key was still clasped in his fingers!
-- III --
IN THE DEAD OF THE NIGHT
The temptation was very great. But what would Father Anton say? What
would Madame Garneau, with whom she lodged, _think_? To go out at this
time of night! It was very late. It was long after midnight, because
it was very long ago when she had heard some distant church clock
strike twelve--and since then it had struck many times, the quarters,
the half hours, only she had lost count.
Marie-Louise drew her cloak a little more closely around her, as she
leaned on the casement of her open window--and then remained quite
still and motionless again.
Irrelevantly it seemed, her thoughts turned on Hector, the concierge.
How very blue Hector's eyes were, and how very red his hair, and
altogether how very droll a figure he made with his absurd
self-importance; and how fat his wife was, whom he so ridiculously
called Mi-mi! And then that conversation between the concierge and his
wife in Jean's salon early that morning, at which she had been present,
began to run through her mind.
"_Tiens_!" Hector had said to his wife. "But will she not make the
thrifty wife for some lucky fellow, our little Louise Bern, here--eh?
She is already waiting an hour in the mornings to be let in. An hour,
mind you, _ma belle_ Mi-mi--and we who think we rise so early! It is a
lesson that! Would you have her standing out in the cold? Why not a
key that she may come in and do her work?"
"But Monsieur Jean," madame had objected mildly, "might be angry if he
knew."
"Monsieur Jean," Hector had replied fatuously, and folding his arms
with an air, "is very well content to leave such matters to me. I do
not pester Monsieur Jean with details. On the night after the
reception, even in the exceedingly bad humour in which I found him,
when I told him that I had thought the matter over, and that the work
was too hard, and that you were wasting away--you see, _ma_ Mi-mi, how
I lie for you--and that I had decided--'decided' was the word I
used--that I must have some one in the mornings to help with the work,
did he not say: 'But assuredly, Hector, assuredly; whatever you think
is right. I depend upon you, _mon ami_.' And does that not show that
we understand each other, Monsieur Jean and I--eh?"
"It was Father Anton, not you, whose idea it was," madame had corrected
with conscientious earnestness. "It was Father Anton, that evening
after we had returned from the Bois and before you had seen Monsieur
Jean, who suggested it, and spoke of Louise here. And that was not
what Monsieur Jean said, for I was listening outside the door. He said
you were a red-headed buffoon, and to go to the devil and not bother
him."
"And what then?" Hector, though slightly disconcerted, had rejoined
with acerbity. "Your tongue is forever clacking! Do I ever recount an
event but that you must put in your word? But that is not the point.
It is Father Anton who says Louise is an honest girl and to be
trusted--and that is enough!"
It was not so irrelevant after all. She was twisting the key in her
fingers now. The key to Jean's house in the Rue Vanitaire. How still
the night was! It seemed so strange that in so great a city where
there were such multitudes of people it could be so still. It was
almost as still as that other night when she had sat at her window in
Bernay-sur-Mer, that night when the _bon Dieu_ had made her see that
for Jean's sake their ways lay so very wide apart. She was glad, very
glad that the _bon Dieu_ had helped her then to put nothing in Jean's
way, because Jean had done so very much more even than any one had
dreamed of.
But it was so strange, so strange! To hear everybody talking about
Jean--on the streets--little snatches of conversation--even here
amongst the very poor--even Madame Garneau, who that afternoon had
stopped in the scrubbing of the floor, and, waving the scrubbing brush
excitedly to point the words, must needs tell her, Marie-Louise, all
about the great Laparde! How proud they all were of Jean, because Jean
had brought such honour upon their beloved France! But it was so
strange, so strange--that they did not know--that they did not know
that, oh, for so many, many years it had been just Jean and
Marie-Louise, and glad, glad days, with the blue sky above, and the
strong arms upon the oars--and--and that she loved Jean, that all her
life she had loved him, that all her life until she should come to die
she would love Jean. It was strange that all these people did not
know, because it seemed that she knew nothing else, because it seemed
to be the only thing in all the world. But it was good that they did
not know, because otherwise she could not even be here as she was, she
could not even be Louise Bern for a little while, and be near Jean, and
see the work that she loved because it was Jean's work, and
because--and because those marvellous figures that he fashioned seemed
somehow now to mean everything that there was in life for her, as
though her own life were wrapped up In them, given in exchange for
them, as though indeed she were a very part of them, and they were of
her blood and flesh.
She pressed her hands very tightly together over the key, and then
opened them and let the key lay in her palm to look at it in the
moonlight. She had seen so little in the studio, so very little! In
the three mornings she had been there, there had always been Madame
Mi-mi to fuss around her, to instruct her in her work, or, failing that
as an excuse--to gossip. And if it were not madame, then it was
Hector--and often it was both. And she had so wanted to be alone
there--it was not very much to ask, that--just to be alone there for a
little time with Jean's things around her, to be very quiet, to be
alone.
Why should she not go now? It was not a sin that she would commit. It
was only that if Father Anton knew, or Madame Garneau knew they would
not understand--but they would never know. No one would ever know.
Jean would be upstairs asleep; and Hector and his wife would be
downstairs in bed. That statue, that wonderful statue of the girl with
the drum, would be more wonderful than ever with the bright moonlight
pouring in upon it through that great glass roof of the _atelier_. She
had seen so little of it, because when she was there it was always
wrapped up in damp cloths; she had seen it only when that absurd Hector
had exhibited it to her with a patronising air as though he had
modelled it himself, making use of a flood of technical expressions of
which she did not understand a word, and of whose meaning she was quite
sure he was equally ignorant, but having heard the words around the
studio repeated them like a parrot. She had seen so little of it, when
her soul cried out to see so much. It haunted her, that statue--why,
she did not know. It was before her always--in her dreams, which were
always dreams of the salon and the _atelier_, the figure with the drum
always stood out above everything else, even though everything else,
even though the very smallest things and details there were so dear and
intimate too. Was it a sin to go and stand and look, when her heart
was so full of the longing that it would not be denied? Who was there
to say, "you went to Jean's studio at two o'clock in the morning,"
when, in the quiet and the stillness there, there would be only
herself, and that great figure with the drum, and the _bon Dieu_, who
made Jean do such wondrous things, to know?
She turned from the window and tiptoed across the little room, and took
the little black velvet turban with its white cockade, that Father
Anton had given her, down from where it hung upon a nail on the wall,
and fastened her cloak tightly about her for fear that it might brush
against something and make a noise, and stole then to the door, and out
into the hallway, and to the front door of the tenement. Yes, she
would go--but no one must know--only herself, and that great figure
with the drum, and--and the _bon Dieu_, who would understand.
And so she went out into the night, and across the city, and to the Rue
Vanitaire, and to Jean's studio; and all the way her heart was beating
quickly, and she was a little frightened, and avoided the people that
she met, for no one must know--and even at the last, when the goal was
reached, and she stood before the house and saw that it was dark in all
the windows, and she had only to enter, there came even then a little
added thrill of fear. The street, she had thought, was deserted, and
suddenly, as she stood there, it--it seemed as though some one hiding
across the street had stepped out of concealment, and as suddenly had
disappeared again. She caught her breath, and stood for a long tense
moment gazing in that direction. And then at last she smiled a little
tremulously. It--it was only a shadow. Yes, she was quite sure now
that it was only a shadow--she could see the flickering of the street
lamp on the wall of the building, where she had thought she had seen
something else. It was very foolish of her to be like this. She had
never been afraid in Bernay-sur-Mer--only everything here was so
strange--and it was very late--and--and she was going into Jean's
studio--and no one must know. And then she mounted the steps very
cautiously, and unlocked the door and closed it softly--and in another
moment, slipping across the hall, past the foot of the stairs that led
to Jean's sleeping apartments above, she had entered the salon and shut
the door behind her.
It was quite dark here, too dark almost to distinguish anything--the
only light was a tiny, truant moonbeam that strayed in from the
_atelier_ between the portieres of the archway. It was in there--the
great figure with the drum! But she would not go there for a moment
yet. It was here, too, that Jean was present in everything about her.
It was here that his friends, those that he cared for now, the people
of the _grand monde_ came to see Jean. She could not see the things
around her, but they were very clearly pictured in her mind--the
beautiful rugs, so soft and silky to the touch, that hung from the
walls; the queer, spindly furniture, that did not seem made for use at
all, that she had been afraid to touch at first for fear it would
break, it looked so fragile; the dark, glossy floor, like a mirror,
that she had polished only that morning; the--her thoughts were
suddenly, disturbingly, flying off at a tangent.
That morning! It brought a quick twinge of pain to Marie-Louise's
heart. The salon had been--had been--oh, she did not know how to
describe it--only Madame Mi-mi had said it was often like that, that
Jean led the gay life, and why not, since he had the _sous_ to pay and
was rich? There had been broken glasses, and confusion, and callous
ruin of things that were priceless, and cards strewn over the
floor--and--and somehow she had not been able to keep her eyes from
being wet all the time she had been cleaning up the room. It--it made
her heart very heavy, and very sorrowful. And yet, too, in a way, she
could understand--because she understood Jean. Long, long ago she had
been afraid--afraid of his success for him, even while she had prayed
for it. If Jean had only a mother, only some one whose love would hold
him back. If he were married--if he had a wife--it would change all
this sort of life that he led now. Yes; if he were married! She could
think of that quite calmly, in a perfectly impersonal way. Why should
she not? Some day Jean would marry--marry some one out of this new
world in which she had no part, which to her was so very strange and
foreign and hard to understand; but which to Jean was so natural, and
which, henceforth, could be the only life he would know. Yes; she
could think of his marrying quite calmly. And why not? She had no
longer part in that--she had passed out of Jean's life long ago, that
day in Bernay-sur-Mer. Perhaps it would be Mademoiselle Bliss--Hector
had hinted at it and winked prodigiously. She found her hand clenching
very hard at her side. It seemed very, very strange, and it was very,
very curious that, while she could think quite calmly of Jean marrying
some one because it would be very good for Jean to marry, a pang came
and her heart rebelled when the "some one," instead of being vague and
general and indefinite, became a particular "some one" that was very
definite and was not vague at all!
Marie-Louise sighed a little. She did not understand. Everything was
so hard to understand. She sighed again--and then, walking slowly
across the room, she parted the portieres and stepped into the
_atelier_.
Here, for an instant, she stood hesitant, just inside the archway,
looking about her. How bright the moonlight was, and how it poured in
and bathed everything in its soft luminous glow, except that,
strangely, there seemed to be a shadow on the white-wrapt statue of the
girl that puzzled her for a moment--ah, yes, it was the door of the
dressing-room, the room where Hector said the models prepared for their
poses, that was wide open and kept the moonlight from the statue. She
moved forward, closed the door quietly, and went then and uncovered the
clay figure and stood before it. She could look her fill now--yet it
seemed that she could never do that, for her craving and her longing
were insatiable. All other things in this life of Jean's, in this life
of hers that she was living for a little while, filled her with dismay
and confusion; but this, this work of Jean's, this figure before her
was real, it seemed somehow to bring her closer to her own world, to
those things she could understand. She did not know why--only that it
was so, and that it was perhaps because of that the girl with the drum
had been haunting her so constantly.
She sat down at last on the little platform that served Jean to stand
upon for his work. It thrilled her, made her pulse leap, this strong,
magnificent figure of womanhood, this torn and tattered soldier-girl;
and one sensed and felt and lived, it seemed, the battle-wrack around
the figure; one saw, it seemed, the stern, set-faced, shot-thinned
ranks that followed to the beating of the drum; one listened to catch
the tramp of feet, the hoarse cheers, the roar of guns. It seemed to
be the call of France, the call to victory and glory, or to death
perhaps, but to dishonour never; it seemed to breathe the love of
country that was beyond all thought of self, fearful of no odds; it
seemed to mean that in the heart of France itself lived the courage
that had never measured sacrifice; it seemed as though those clay lips
parted, and above the din of conflict, of battle and of strife she
could hear the voice ring out in deathless words: "Forward--for France!"
But it was not only that alone that held her enthralled. It was the
face, with the moonlight full upon it now. It was beautiful, it was
glorious--but there was something more. There was something in the
face that seemed to stir a memory, a world of memories within her.
There was something familiar in the face--there seemed to be something
there that she recognised and yet could not define. She had seen that
face all her life--all her life. It belonged to every one that she had
ever known in Bernay-sur-Mer--and yet it belonged to no one at all that
she could name. But then--it was not finished yet. Perhaps when it
was finished she would know. It would be finished now in a few days
more, Hector had said; and he had said, too, that it would be the
greatest work Jean had ever done.
If she could only watch it until it was finished! If she could only do
that--afterwards she would go away. It was only for a little while
that she had come to Paris--only for a little while. If she could do
that! If she could come to-morrow night, and the nights after that
until it was all finished, just as she had come to-night! Yes,
yes--_yes_! Yes, she would come! She would watch it grow, and watch
so eagerly and so tensely the face that was so well-known yet so
elusive now!
"_La Fille du Regiment_!" Her hands cupping her chin, she sat there as
motionless, as silent as the statue itself; sat there absorbed,
unconscious of the passing time. It was strange the face should be
familiar! It was strange that there, too, had been something familiar
in the face of that figure in the park that Father Anton had taken her
to see, in the face of every other figure that the cure had pointed out
to her as Jean's work! She had gone back to look at them alone; but
they, although they were finished, had not answered her question, had
not told her who they were. But this one, this one was _almost_
telling her now--there was only to come a touch, just a touch from
Jean's hand--that would perhaps be there when she came to-morrow
night--and then she would know.
And so she sat there, and the hours passed, and the moonlight faded,
and the grey of dawn crept into the room--and Marie-Louise roused
herself with a start. And at first dismay was upon her. It was
morning--too late to go home! And then she shook her head, and smiled
happily--happily, because she had spent glad and happy hours, and there
was no need to be dismayed. Presently, she would go about her work--to
which she had come early, that was all. And at her lodging, Madame
Garneau would find the bed made because it was always made before she
left there in the morning, before Madame Garneau was up.
-- IV --
THE ACCUSATION
There was a sullen, angry set to Jean's lips, a scowl on his face that
gathered his forehead into heavy furrows, as, at his accustomed morning
hour, a little after nine, he entered the _atelier_. He had not slept
well the night before--nor for the nights before that--not since that
afternoon here with Myrna. How could one sleep with things in the mess
they were--to say nothing of the night before last when he had not
tried to sleep, and had held high revel with a few choice spirits in a
sort of dare-devil challenge to the premonition that promised him a
reckoning for those few moments in which he had sought to quench the
passion that raged in his soul, that set his brain afire!
He crossed the room, mechanically donned his sculptor's blouse, or
over-dress, threw off the wrappings from the "Fille du Regiment,"
picked up a modelling tool, stepped upon the platform--and stared into
the face that looked back at him from the high-flung, splendid head of
clay. He snarled suddenly, clenching his fist. They prated to him of
secret models! Bah! It was too much for them! They could not
understand--it was beyond them--that was all! It was there, all of it,
the courage, the resolution, the purity, the strength, the virility of
the womanhood of France--all--all--it was all there--and they thought
it wonderful, incomparable--only they prated of a secret model--_nom de
Dieu_--when it was themselves, when it was France that was the
model--and they had not grasped the apotheosis of their separate
individualities in the sublime glory of the composite whole! Ha,
ha--perhaps it was because they were modest!
He smiled with intolerant contempt. They prated of a secret model,
they applauded, they cheered, they showered him with wealth, with fame,
the world knew the name of Jean Laparde--and, because they were unable
to comprehend, they asked for something more, something that, no doubt,
should label his work like raised letters for the blind--and then
perhaps it would be only to find that they had still to acquire the
alphabet! Bah--it was sickening, that! But it was also maddening!
There was old Bidelot, who came each day to the studio. Bidelot was a
fool--a senile old fool, who sat and wept weak tears because the statue
was so beautiful; and wept weaker tears because, like a spoilt child,
he cried for something that he wanted without knowing what it was!
"You talk--you rant--you whimper--you bemoan!" he had flared out
angrily at Bidelot yesterday afternoon. "Well, what is it? Do you
find it a pitiful affair, then, my '_Fille du Regiment_'?"
"Ah, Jean! Ah, no! Ah, no!" old Bidelot had cried. "It is not that!
It is exquisite, it is magnificent, it is superb, it transcends
anything the world has ever seen. It is so great that if only there
were a little something, ah, _mon_ Jean, a little something, it would
be the work of a god and not a man!"
"And that something? What is it?" he had demanded.
And old Bidelot had wrung his hands, and the tears had coursed down his
cheeks.
"I do not know! I do not know!" the famous critic had answered almost
hysterically. "If I knew I would tell you. It is but a touch--but a
touch."
Old Bidelot was emotional--an ass! Old Bidelot was fast approaching
his dotage! Jean shrugged his shoulders wrathfully. It was not true,
of course! It lacked nothing, that face--and yet--and yet that sort of
thing disquieted him, irritated him. It was a masterpiece--and its
only fault was that it had not been made by a god! _Ciel_! Was there
ever anything more absurd than that! Well, in any event, it was to
bring him one hundred and twenty-five thousand francs; and his next
commission, which was for the Government of France, would be for double
that amount. Old Bidelot and his "touch"! For France, when this was
finished, he would do that dream statue, if--_damn_ that dream statue!
Jean snarled again. What was the matter with him! The cursed thing
was always in his mind; but never would it come and appear before him,
lifelike and actual, that bronze figure of the woman, as once it had
done. Instead, it seemed to have faded more and more completely away,
until it was as invisible as the base of the statue which he had never
been able to see at all, and yet at which the passers-by in his dreams
had gazed with the same rapt attention as at the woman's figure--it had
faded until the whole existed simply as an indistinct blur upon the
memory. If he could visualise that figure again, get the detail, he
could supply a base of some sort that would go with it; that would come
simply enough once he got to work. _Would_ it! He had thought until
his brain was sick, for hours on end, trying to imagine a fitting
subject, big enough, splendid enough to harmonise with what he
remembered was the majestic beauty of the woman's figure--and the hours
had only made the task seem the more beyond him, his each succeeding
imaginary design the more inadequate and pitiful.
It made him angry now, increased and inflamed his already irritable and
savage mood. Why had he started in to think of that! Why, in heaven's
name, should he think of everything that morning that he did not want
to think of! Why, when nothing else would come, should the cold,
enigmatical face of Paul Valmain staring at that confounded key, come
so readily before him, and--he hurled his modelling tool suddenly,
savagely, into the far corner of the room; and, stepping down from the
platform, pulled viciously at the bell. He was yanking his blouse off
over his head, as Hector appeared.
"Get my car, Hector!" he snapped tersely. "I am going out."
Hector's blue eyes widened in amazement. The car in the morning--the
morning that was sacred to work!
"The car, m'sieu?" he repeated, as though he had not heard aright.
"Yes, imbecile--the car!" Jean snapped again.
"But, m'sieu!" It was unheard of! It had never occurred before! "But
is m'sieu not going to work this morning, and--"
"The _car_!"
"But, yes, m'sieu--instantly--instantly, m'sieu!" Hector stammered--and
retreated hastily from the room.
Jean followed him--spent a few impatient moments kicking at the
sidewalk while he waited; and then, at the wheel of his big, powerful
machine, went tearing up the street. Work! It was worse than useless
in the vile humour he was in. The car had been an inspiration; he
would go nowhere in particular, but he would drive--fast. That was
what he wanted, some excitement, some exhilaration. He would go out
into the country, anywhere, with the whole day before him, and--no! He
would go first to Myrna's house! Why not! He scowled heavily again.
It was getting beyond endurance, that sort of thing! There had been
three, no, four days of it now! The decision quite fitted in with his
mood--whatever might be the result. Yes, _nom d'un nom_, he would go
there--and at once!
It was but a short way; and, at the expiration of a few minutes, Jean
stopped his car in front of the magnificent residence that Henry Bliss
maintained in a style that was almost regal, jumped out, and ran up the
steps.
"Mademoiselle Bliss," he said to the liveried automaton that answered
his summons.
"Mademoiselle Bliss is out, Monsieur Laparde," replied the man.
"Very well, then--Monsieur Bliss," returned Jean, a little grimly.
"Monsieur Bliss is not at home, Monsieur Laparde," replied the man.
Jean bit his lip. That Henry Bliss might still be away, since he had
gone to London some days before, was probably true; but that Myrna was
out at ten o'clock in the morning--the man, under instructions, was
lying, of course! He stood hesitant, his rage increasing, half
inclined to reach out and twist the neck of this bedecked
functionary--and then, with a short laugh, he swung on his heel, went
down the steps again, and climbed back into the car.
The car shot forward in a savage bound. She was probably watching him
from behind the curtain of a window! His hands clenched fiercely on
the steering wheel--and he flung the throttle wide. It was enough!
This had lasted long enough! It was her idea of punishment, perhaps!
"Mademoiselle Bliss is out, Monsieur Laparde"--he mimicked the
colourless-voiced flunky viciously. To telephones, personal calls--the
same answer; to notes--no answer at all. Well, she would answer--and
soon! He would take care of that, and--he jammed the brakes
frantically on the machine, as a figure, barely escaping disaster as
the result of his reckless driving, jumped wildly away from in front of
the car; while a voice shouted in sharp protest:
"Hey, there--where are you going!"
"To the devil!" snarled Jean--and chuckled the next instant with sudden
malicious delight, as he recognised the other. It was Father Anton--on
his way to the Bliss residence, probably.
"You are travelling fast, my son!"--grave and quiet, the note of
protest gone, Father Anton's voice came back from the curb--and then
the old priest was blotted from sight, and the car was speeding down
the boulevard again.
Hah! Father Anton! Father Anton--the grandmother! Father Anton, who
had thought on arriving in Paris to lecture him, Jean Laparde, on how
he should live, and sermonise on the pleasures of the flesh, and the
dangers of power and wealth and position, and to haunt the studio with
a sanctimoniously grieved expression everlastingly on his face! Ha,
ha! Father Anton! Father Anton was the man who once had preached so
fatuously on the nothingness of fame! Well, Father Anton, if he were
not blind, could--again Jean checked the car violently, this time in
response to a harsh, strident, authoritative command.
And then a gendarme was running alongside, gesticulating furiously--but
the next moment the man was touching his cap.
"Ah, it is Monsieur Laparde! _Pardon, mille pardons_, Monsieur
Laparde!" The man's voice dropped to a low tone, as he leaned in over
the side of the car. "But if monsieur will be good enough to have a
care. It will get us into trouble if we do not do our duty, and
monsieur would not like that to happen. Ah, monsieur"--at Jean's
five-franc piece. "Ah--"
The car was off again. But now Jean laughed aloud. Fame! Who was
there that did not know Jean Laparde--from the President of France to
the gamin of the gutters! It began to salve a little his irritation,
his ugly mood. To the devil with Father Anton--as he had just now had
the pleasure of intimating to him. There was little that was empty in
the fame that was his. Wealth had been poured upon him; there was
nothing, nothing that was beyond his reach, nothing that he could
desire and be obliged to refuse himself; and, yes--_'cre nom_, one
could say it for it was true--throughout all France he was worshipped
as though he were a demigod. He had only to enter a cafe anywhere, and
in a moment from the tables around he would catch the whispers: "Look!
There is Jean Laparde, the great sculptor!" And position--what man in
all of France, or in Europe, occupied a position comparable to his!
None! There was none! He would change places with no one! He owed
allegiance to none; he received it from all. He received the cheers,
the acclaim of the populace; the decorations of governments and
royalty! And none could take this from him. It was his! And there
were to be years of it--all the years he lived. He was young yet.
Years of it! He was Jean Laparde, Jean Laparde, Jean Laparde--the man
whose name sent a magic thrill even to his own soul. God, how he loved
it all with a passion and a desire and an insatiability that was rooted
in his very breath of life!
The car was speeding now out through the suburbs of the great
city--on--on--on! His thoughts were bringing him exhilaration in
abundant measure; something in the sense of freedom, in the swift
motion, brought him elated excitement. His blood was whipping
buoyantly through his veins. There would be a day of this--to go
somewhere, anywhere--without plan, or predetermination, this road or
that, it mattered not at all--a day of it--prompted no longer by the
sullen, disgruntled mood that had caused him to set out, but by a more
potent and saner spirit of almost boyish vagabondage that bade him keep
on.
Myrna! He smiled now. He was a fool to have spoilt the last few days
for himself just because he had not seen her! Let her have her way for
a while, if it pleased her! No doubt she was trying to discipline him!
It was delightful, that! Discipline Jean Laparde! It was he who would
play the role of disciplinarian before he was through--not she! He
loved her, wanted her--and, by Heaven, he was Jean Laparde! And what
Jean Laparde wanted was his! She belonged to him, and his she would
be, and no other man's! Paul Valmain, eh? Next time he would deal
with Paul Valmain, and not with Myrna. The poor fool--who ranted and
raved and screamed like a cockatoo on the floor of the Chamber of
Deputies, and dreamed that it was impassioned eloquence! It would be
well for Paul Valmain to take another road than that of Jean Laparde!
The poor fool--that did not know the power of Jean Laparde! He held
Paul Valmain, as he held every other man in France, between his thumb
and forefinger--to pinch, if he saw fit. A whisper in the ear of this
one and that, and Paul Valmain was as dead politically as though he had
never been born.
And now Jean threw back his head and laughed boisterously. All that
was no exaggeration; it was literally true. He even held Myrna in
exactly the same position. He could break her socially--as readily as
he could break a twig from a tree! It was even ludicrous, it was so
simple. Imagine Myrna in such a state! Imagine what would happen if
he let it be known that Jean Laparde would attend no function at which
Mademoiselle Bliss was a guest! It was too funny, too droll! And she
had dreams perhaps of disciplining Jean Laparde!
His face flushed a little. She was his! He had felt those warm, rich
lips against his own! He would feel them there again a thousand
times--ay, and soon again! He would not wait this time--as he had
waited, fool that he had been, before! But for a day or so, if it
pleased her to ride upon a high horse, let her go fast and
furious--afterwards, that was quite another matter. Afterwards, those
lips would be his again, that glorious, pulsing body would be in his
arms again--and in the meantime--here was a great level stretch of road
before him--and the day was before him--and the to-morrow could take
care of itself!
And so Jean rode far that day; and lunched at a quaint little village
near the Belgian frontier; and quite lost himself; and dined in a
farmhouse; and finally, set upon the road again, reached Paris after
midnight, where he alighted in front of his club. He was in a "humour"
now, as he put it himself. A little supper and a hand at cards would
complete, round out a day of rare delight. He was even humming an air
to himself, as he entered the club.
"_Pardon_, Monsieur Laparde!"--the doorman was bowing respectfully.
"Monsieur Valmain is in one of the private writing rooms--the one at
the head of the stairs, monsieur."
Jean stopped his humming, and stared at the man.
"Well--and what of that?" he demanded.
"But, monsieur!" murmured the man, a little abashed. "Monsieur expects
to meet Monsieur Valmain, does he not? Monsieur Valmain left word."
Jean scowled, and passed on. Paul Valmain! Paul Valmain! Paul
Valmain! What devil of perversity had seen fit to drag Paul Valmain
upon the scene? Was his day to be ruined by a bad taste in his mouth?
What did the man want?
He went upstairs, knocked upon the door indicated, and, without waiting
for an answer, opened it rather brusquely, stepped inside--and, with an
exclamation of angry surprise, gazed at the man who seemed literally to
have rushed across the room to confront him. Paul Valmain's face was
positively livid, the eyes burned as though consumed with fever, the
hands shook, and the tall form quivered in the most astonishing
fashion. Was the man mad?
"Ah, Monsieur Jean Laparde!" the other cried out. "You have come at
last! You saw fit to absent yourself to-day! I have been five times
to the studio! But you thought it better to answer my message finally,
eh? You did well! I should have gone again in an hour to dig you out!"
Jean eyed the other for a moment, contempt struggling with bewilderment
for the mastery at the man's actions and incoherent outburst.
"You have perhaps been drinking," he said coldly. "I received no
message until I entered the club here an instant ago. And I am not to
be 'dug out,' Monsieur Valmain! You are using strange language. If
you are drunk, apologise; otherwise--"
"Otherwise!"--the word came like a devil's laugh from Paul Valmain; and
before Jean could move, or, taken by surprise, guard himself, the flat
of Paul Valmain's hand had swung in a stinging blow across Jean's
mouth. "You--_hound_!"
The blood came surging into Jean's face, and with a bound he had the
other by the shoulders--and then, somehow, he found himself
laughing--not merrily--laughing in a sort of contemptuous rage. He
could take Paul Valmain with his own great strength and do with him
what he pleased. But that was not the way a blow such as he had
received was to be answered! And, anyway, what was the matter with the
man? He must have lost his senses!
"You--hound!"--Paul Valmain was repeating hoarsely, his lips twitching
in his passion. "I watched last night outside your studio. I watched,
and oh, God!--I saw her enter."
Jean's hands dropped from the man's shoulders in blank amazement. Yes,
certainly, the man was either drunk or mad! Certainly, he was not
responsible for what he was saying.
"There was no one who entered my studio last night," he said almost
pityingly.
"You liar!"--Paul Valmain was like a man beside himself, demented.
"You liar--you liar--you liar! I saw her! I know now who this secret
model is whose divine form you desecrate, you black-souled libertine!
I saw her go in at two o'clock in the morning--_and at daylight she had
not come out again_."
Jean shrugged his shoulders intolerantly. The man was quite out of his
head from some cause or other, but that was no reason why he should be
called upon to endure the other's irresponsible ranting.
"You poor fool!" he exclaimed irritably. "So you know who it is, do
you? And what then? If it brings you such poignant, personal grief,
why did you let her go in? Why did you not tell her that--"
"It was too late"--white to the lips, Paul Valmain raised his clenched
fists--"it was too late--after months of it! I could save her only one
thing--the knowledge that I knew her shame. I was across the street--I
saw her--God pity me--I loved her--the black cloak and hat she wore
only a few days before when we were together! I have lived in hell and
torment and fear that it might be so since that afternoon--that
afternoon--did you think I did not see the key in your hand, and--"
"What do you mean?"--there was a sudden blackness curiously streaked
with red before Jean's eyes; the blood was sweeping in a mad tide
upward in his face to pound like trip-hammers at his temples--the man's
words could bear only one interpretation, a hideous one, that outraged
his soul, and roused a seething fury within him. "What do you mean?"
he said again between his teeth.
"I mean," Paul Valmain answered, "I mean--damn you, you know what I
mean! I mean that from two o'clock in the morning until daylight Myrna
Bliss was in your rooms, and--"
"You devil from hell!" Jean shouted--and leaped at the other's throat.
If the man struggled he did not realise it. The man was only an
impotent, powerless thing in his grasp--and he flung him away, flung
him crashing to the floor. "I will kill you for that!" he whispered.
"To-night--you can find a friend downstairs to act for you--I another."
Paul Valmain staggered to his feet.
"I have waited all day for the same purpose!" The devil's laugh was on
the grey lips again.
"It is _a l'outrance_, Monsieur Valmain--you understand!"--Jean choked
in his fury. "_A l'outrance_!"
"As you shall see!"
"And the studio--if it suits you! We shall not be disturbed. There is
room there, and you will find it as pleasant a place as any in which to
die!"
"Where you will!" retorted Paul Valmain. "Where you will--so there is
no delay!"
-- V --
THE SECRET MODEL
Marie-Louise glanced quickly up at the house. Yes; it was all dark!
There was no light in Hector's apartments below; nor in the salon; nor
in Jean's rooms above. She had scarcely dared to look, for fear that
she had come too soon, that Hector perhaps was still up, that Jean
perhaps might be with some of his friends in the salon. But it was all
dark. She was quite breathless, for she had run nearly all the way
from Madame Garneau's in her eagerness; but that did not matter at all
now, for she was not to be disappointed, since, after all, she had not
come too soon. It was much earlier than it had been last night, when
she had come for the first time to be all alone there in the studio in
the moonlight, where the hours had passed so swiftly and been all too
short; but it had seemed that the day would never end, that night would
never come again, and the evening had dragged so cruelly as she had sat
by her window--and so when that church clock from somewhere in the
distance had struck midnight she could wait no longer, for perhaps
to-night Jean would have finished the face, and perhaps to-night it
would not all be so vague and trouble her so because it seemed that in
some strange way it was so familiar, though she could not tell why.
She took the key from the pocket of her dress, and stole softly up the
steps. How glad she was now that she had not waited any longer! She
would have so much more time there in the _atelier_ with the wonderful
figures that Jean made, that were not clay at all, but that breathed
and lived, and to whom she could talk about Jean, and about his great
triumph, and tell them all that was in her heart, and they would listen
to her and understand as no one else could, and never tell any one that
she had been there. And she would not be afraid of them at all any
more, not even at first, as she had been last night because they looked
so ghostlike in the white cloths that were wrapped around them.
She looked hurriedly about her, then opened the door, stepped inside,
and crossed noiselessly into the salon. She could not quite still the
pounding of her heart, because it was night, and because it was dark,
and because she was doing something that no one must know; but she was
not at all afraid now. Since last night she had been so sure that
there was nothing to fear. Hector and Madame Mi-mi had thought it the
most natural thing to find her working there that morning when they had
got up. Was it not for that she had been given the key? And to-morrow
morning again when daylight came it would be the same; and now--she was
hurrying through the salon to the _atelier_--and now she was to see
that splendid, glorious figure, the "_Fille du Regiment_," again, and
see the face that perhaps, oh, perhaps to-night, after Jean's work of
the day upon it, would be finished, and that she would recognise.
She slipped between the portieres into the moonlit room, and--she could
not wait even to take off her cloak and turban--tiptoed eagerly,
excitedly across the _atelier_, mounted upon the modelling platform,
and threw back the white damp cloth, revealing the figure's head. And
then, for a moment, she could only gaze at it, puzzled and bewildered;
and then, very slowly and regretfully, she sat down upon the platform.
The face had not been touched. It--it was exactly as it had been last
night. Somehow, Jean had not done any work that day--or else, perhaps,
he had worked on some of the other figures.
She sat staring at the face of the clay figure in a disappointment that
was almost dismay--and then suddenly she smiled. After all, it was she
herself who was the cause of her disappointment; she had wanted to see
that face with its finished touch so much that, in her eagerness, she
had quite made herself believe that she would find it so--whereas it
might be days and days yet before Jean would have completed it. And
instead of being disappointed, she should be very happy that the _bon
Dieu_ had made it possible for her to come here at all, to be so close
to Jean, and to be able to spend these hours here with his work--and
even if it were days and days before it was finished, could she not
still come here every night until it was done, and could she not still
be able to see it then?
As she looked around her, the white-wrapt figures seemed to nod to her
and promise her that it would be so. How quiet and still it was, and
how peacefully the moonlight filled the _atelier_--Jean's _atelier_.
It was so different a scene from that magnificent reception where
France in all its glory had honoured Jean; where the marble stairs, the
lights, the throngs, the glittering uniforms, the marvellously dressed
women with their furs and jewels had awed and frightened her, and yet
had filled her, too, with ecstasy because it was Jean's triumph, and
had brought thankfulness into her resignation because she had seen with
her own eyes how great he had become and how little had been her own
sacrifice to achieve so much. Yes, it was strange how different was
that scene and this around her now--and yet they were both so intimate
a part of Jean's life. And they were so very different to her in a
personal way. She did not want to see that world of the rich and the
great any more, because she could not understand it, and no one there
could understand her; but here--she was so glad and happy to be
here--here she could understand, and here these figures understood her
when she spoke to them because they knew that she had given all she had
to give, not out of her own strength but out of the strength that the
_bon Dieu_ had given her, that they might be created by Jean's hands.
Here, Jean was so near to her; there, in that other world, he was so
far away--so far away that she had gone utterly out of his life, even
out of his thoughts.
She sighed a little as she sat there on the modelling platform; and
then there came again that little smile of self-reproof, and with it a
chiding shake of her head. It was well that it was so. There was no
other way. It would have brought only distress and pain to Jean if he
were always to remember, and--and it was far better so. The gulf
between them was so wide and deep that it could never be passed, and if
she were still living in Jean's heart it could only make life a very
terrible thing for them both. And so--and so--yes, she should be very
thankful for that, too; be very thankful for both their sakes that he
had so entirely forgotten her.
The white-wrapt figures seemed to nod most gravely in assent again--it
was only a tree branch in the courtyard frolicking with a moonbeam and
sending a little playful shadow over them that seemed to make them
move, but that was how they always talked to her, and made their
understanding seem so real.
She sat quite still for a little while, gazing at the face of the
"_Fille du Regiment_" before her; and then, clapping her hands softly
together and with an impulsive little exclamation of delight she stood
up excitedly. Perhaps Jean had been working upon the statue, even if
he had not touched the face. And, anyway, there was more to see than
just the face--the figure itself was just as wonderful, just as
beautiful. Quickly, but very carefully, she loosened and removed the
covering from the body and base of the figure, let the covering fall
upon the floor--and, stepping back to look at it, stood suddenly
transfixed, her hands pressed tightly against her bosom, her face white
with fear.