The Beloved Traitor Part 24

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 gla.s.ses, 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 pa.s.sed 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 hoa.r.s.e 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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sed, 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 pa.s.sion 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 G.o.d 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 a.s.s! 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 G.o.d! _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--_d.a.m.n_ 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 pa.s.sers-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 demiG.o.d. He had only to enter a cafe anywhere, and in a moment from the tables around he would catch the whispers: "Look!