The Beloved Traitor Part 25

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. G.o.d, how he loved it all with a pa.s.sion 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 c.o.c.katoo on the floor of the Chamber of Deputies, and dreamed that it was impa.s.sioned 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 pa.s.sed 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 hoa.r.s.ely, his lips twitching in his pa.s.sion. "I watched last night outside your studio. I watched, and oh, G.o.d!--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--G.o.d 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 h.e.l.l 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--d.a.m.n 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 h.e.l.l!" 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 pa.s.sed 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.