The Beloved Traitor Part 26

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 pa.s.sed, 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 a.s.sent 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.

Some one was coming! She strained her eyes across the _atelier_, holding them for an instant, fascinated, upon the portieres. No, no; surely she had been mistaken! It could have been only fancy, and--a low cry came from her lips. The front door had closed; there were footsteps in the hall, a number of them it seemed; and--and that was Jean's voice!

"The salon, messieurs, if you please!"

They were coming! They were entering the salon! What could she do?

She could not get away or escape! There was no way to get out! They were already in the salon! She looked wildly, helplessly around her--and then, with a little gasp that mingled relief and trepidation, her eyes fixed on the door of the models' dressing room. She began to steal toward it, holding her breath. How terribly her heart pounded!

She could not go very fast, because then she would make a noise and they would hear her. And that was Jean's voice again, this time from the salon itself, from just on the other side of the portieres, it seemed.

"The _atelier_ will serve us better than this polished floor, messieurs."

Oh, if she could only reach the dressing room in time! How hoa.r.s.e Jean's voice seemed to be! She was nearly there now--nearly there! If only the _bon Dieu_ would help her! It was only a step more--just one!

Now--now she was there! She slipped into the little place that was hardly any bigger than a large closet, and drew the door shut behind her, as the portieres were swished apart and the rings on the pole clattered with a terrifying noise. And then she found that she was very weak, and that her knees were trembling as though they would give way beneath her.

It was very dark. She dared not move for fear she might knock into something and make a noise. She told herself that she must stand very still. She could hear them out in the _atelier_ now in a m.u.f.fled sort of a way; they were walking around and around, and it sounded as though they were moving things about. And then she seemed to go cold with fear again, and a sense of dismay surged upon her. The "_Fille du Regiment_" was uncovered! She had had no time, even if she had thought of it, to replace the covering. What would Jean do? Would he think it was an accident, that the wrapping had been carelessly done, would he blame Hector, or--would he think some one had been there, that some one was perhaps there now, and--and suppose he should come to the dressing room door, and open it, and--and find her there!

She was frightened now, terribly afraid--more afraid than she had ever been in her life before. If Jean should find her there, what would he think of her? The blood rushed in a fierce crimson tide to her face.

She would rather die than that! But it was not only herself, it was not only that--there was Jean. She had no right to obtrude herself into his life and to disturb it. But surely--surely the _bon Dieu_ would keep him away from the door! She had been very foolish and very wicked ever to have come, ever to have risked so much, only the temptation had been so great, and her heart had pleaded so hard; but--but if only no harm should come of it all this time, she would promise that--that she would not come there any more like this at night.

Perhaps he had not seen it! Perhaps he had not noticed it! And yet it was not just moonlight out there any more, and the _atelier_ was lighted now, for she could see the tiny rays as they filtered in under the door where it did not fit well over the threshold. She listened intently, almost expecting to hear Jean cry out about the covering of the "_Fille du Regiment_," but they still seemed to be moving around a great deal, and the voices were indistinguishable, and she could understand nothing of what they were saying, except only a name that she caught because it was repeated several times--the name of Paul Valmain. It seemed somehow to be familiar. Yes; she remembered. He was one of Jean's friends of the _grand monde_, the man that Father Anton had pointed out beside Monsieur and Mademoiselle Bliss in that group with Jean on the night of the great reception.

It seemed as though hours were pa.s.sing as she stood there. It seemed to grow unbearably hot in that small, dark place; it seemed even that it was hard to breathe. Perhaps it was her fear that was suffocating her! She unfastened the black velvet cloak and let it hang more loosely, wide apart, upon her shoulders--and held her hand agitatedly upon her bare throat, that was now exposed by the low-necked blouse.

Would they never go! And what were they doing there? It was very strange! They seemed to keep on tramping and even running around, and there was no sound of voices now--only a most peculiar sound that made her think of Papa Fregeau when he stood in the kitchen of the Bas Rhone and sharpened his carving knife on his long bone-handled steel.

Then all grew suddenly quiet--and the quiet was as suddenly broken by a voice, loud enough and distinct enough for her to hear.

"It is nothing! But a touch, monsieur--continue!"

Marie-Louise's eyes widened, and slowly her form grew rigid and tense, and her hand at her throat slipped away and caught at the neck of her blouse, and in a spasmodic clutch tore it wider apart. That voice--she did not know whose it was--but there was no mistaking the cold, sullen fury in it. And the tramping of feet had begun again--and that sound again, the rasp of steel, was hideous now, bringing her a sickening dread.

It was as though for a moment she were too stunned to move. They were fighting out there in Jean's _atelier_--with--with swords. And perhaps--perhaps it was Jean who was fighting. And if--if he should be--no, no!--she dare not even let the thought take form in her mind.

But she must see--somehow, she must see! How dark it was, and how those sounds brought terror now! She could not stand there and--and think; she must see that at least it was not Jean, or else--or else she would scream out in her agony of suspense.

She groped out with her hand for the door. She could open it very silently, just a little way--they would be too occupied to notice it.

Her hand trembled as it fell upon the k.n.o.b. She pushed the door open a crack, an inch. There seemed to burst in upon her, in upon the contrasting utter darkness, a blinding light that dazzled her so that she could see nothing; and to burst in upon her a horrible riot of noise--heavy, panting gasps for breath, the quick shuffle of feet upon the floor, the grating, the ring, the metallic grinding of rapier blades.

In terror, she pushed the door open another inch--and held it rigidly, as, suddenly, her heart seemed to stop its beat. There came a gurgling moan--then--then an instant's deathlike silence--and then, with a wild cry, she flung the door wide open, and, as it crashed back against the wall, she stumbled out into the _atelier_.

She could see now, but it was as though it were not herself at all who looked around the room, for her brain seemed suddenly to be acting in an impersonal, numbed, apathetic way. She could see everything very clearly, but it was as though some one else, not she, were seeing it.

She stretched out her arms before her like one who was blind to feel her way, and started across the _atelier_. She should have run, she should have run so fast, so fast, something within her told her she should run, but her limbs seemed scarcely able to support her weight--she could only stumble across the _atelier_ with her arms stretched out. That was not Jean who stood in the centre of the room holding a rapier in his hand, it was Paul Valmain. And the man who stood beside Paul Valmain was not Jean. And there were two other men, but neither of them was Jean. But they held a silent, grey-faced, unconscious form in their arms that they were lowering to the floor--and that was Jean. And they looked at her as she came, looked at her in so strange and startled a way; and Paul Valmain took a step toward her, and cried out, and drew suddenly back--and then--and then she was on her knees, and Jean's head was gathered into her arms, and he was so white, so terribly white, and he made no sound--and--and--

"Jean! Jean!"--she was crying his name pa.s.sionately, piteously, crying it over and over again. "Jean! Jean!"

And he made no answer--only lay there white and still. And then some one took her arm and tried to draw her away--and some one spoke to her.

"Mademoiselle must permit me," the voice said gravely. "I am the doctor."

They took Jean from her, and the man who had said he was the doctor bent over Jean--and, still on her knees, she watched them. Why should they take him from her--now? It could do no one any harm now that she should have Jean, when Jean did not know, when perhaps--she lifted her head quickly, lifted it far back until the white throat and bosom lay bare; until the pure, glorious face, with its wonderful contour, its divinely beautiful lips, tense with outraged grief, looked full into another face that was thrust suddenly before her. It was Paul Valmain who had done this, and he dared to come and stand over her now, and hold in his hand the--why did she not scream out---the blade was red!

"Look! Look!"--his face ashen, Paul Valmain was pointing to the unwrapped figure of the "_Fille du Regiment_." "The face--the lips!"

he whispered hoa.r.s.ely. "The lips--it is you who are his model! It was you--last night! That hat! That cloak! My G.o.d!" he cried out, and the rapier, falling from his hand, clattered upon the floor. "My G.o.d, what have I done!"

-- VI --

"JEAN MUST NOT KNOW"

Jean's model! Even in that moment, when it seemed that all else was extraneous, that nothing mattered save that white face, that still form on the floor, the thought brought a strange, troubled amazement--but it was gone almost instantly, as her mind, still refusing to centre on anything but the one great fear that perhaps Jean might die, carried her swiftly back to what was pa.s.sing around her. She looked again at the doctor as he knelt on the floor and worked with deft fingers over Jean, and something in those grey hairs, in that kindly face, even if it were so grave now, gave her a little courage--surely, surely he would not let Jean die; she looked at the man who, too, was kneeling beside Jean--but he meant nothing to her, she could only wonder why he was there; she looked at Paul Valmain--and shuddered. It was Paul Valmain who had done this, who perhaps had killed Jean--and he was still staring at her in such a fixed, horrible, fascinated way. She rose quickly to her feet, clenching her hands.

And then the doctor, raising his head suddenly, was speaking in quiet tones:

"I need hardly say that if Monsieur Laparde recovers, we are in honour pledged to secrecy, messieurs. Monsieur Vinailles and I will carry Monsieur Laparde upstairs to his bed, so that clatter-tongued concierge and his wife will know nothing of this--and to-morrow, if they are told that Monsieur Laparde has met with an accident it will be enough.

Monsieur Vinailles and I will attend to everything here; and I would suggest, Monsieur Valmain, that you and Monsieur LeFair withdraw at once. I will send you a report in half an hour."

Paul Valmain shook his head.

"No," he said, in a low, shaken voice. "LeFair will go--I remain here." He pointed suddenly to Marie-Louise. "I must speak to her--alone. Go, LeFair--wait for me at my rooms."

Marie-Louise drew hurriedly back.

"No, no!" she exclaimed sharply. The man filled her with abhorrence; and now, besides, he was trying to keep her away from Jean--and nothing, nothing in all the world would make her leave Jean's side now.

But no one seemed to be paying any attention to her--not even Paul Valmain any more, who had turned away, and, whispering as he went, was walking rapidly into the salon with the man they had called LeFair.

The doctor had slipped his wrist through the handle of his black bag to leave his hands free, and he and the other man were lifting Jean up in their arms--and then, numbly, as they carried him from the room, she followed.

She saw nothing now only Jean's face, so ghastly in pallor, with its closed eyes, and with the black hair tumbling over his forehead. It brought a greater fear upon her; but she kept telling herself that she must be brave, for perhaps they would let her help them when they got upstairs, perhaps there would be something that she could do.

They went on through the salon, and out into the hall, and began to mount the stairs--and then some one, hurrying from the direction of the front door, caught her arm.

"Wait, mademoiselle, wait!" a voice said hoa.r.s.ely. "Wait--I must speak to you!"

It was Paul Valmain again. She pushed him violently away from her, and, without looking back at him, went on after the others.

On the landing at the head of the stairs, they halted for a moment to open a door, and then for the first time the doctor appeared to notice that she had been following.

"_Pardon_, mademoiselle," he said a little brusquely. "If mademoiselle will be good enough to wait below!"

They were trying to keep her from Jean again. Every one tried to keep her from Jean. She clenched her hands pa.s.sionately. But now--now they should not keep her away any longer.

"No!" she cried out fiercely. "You shall not send me away! I will not go--I will not!"

He stared at her for an instant, then shrugged his shoulders.