The Beloved Traitor Part 28

He laughed at her in a hollow way, and only tightened his hold, as he pulled her in front of the clay figure of the "_Fille du Regiment_."

"Stand so!" he burst out. "With your head--so! As you were when you came from that dressing room! So--so!"--he pushed her chin up, and grasped her by the shoulders.

"Monsieur!" she cried out again, and struggled to free herself.

"Monsieur, what are you doing?"

"Wait, I tell you!" he almost shouted.

Frightened before, she was terrified now, and besides she hated the man with all her strength, and her soul shrank from him because it was he who had so nearly killed Jean; but she had come to plead with him, she must not forget that, only--only he was acting so strangely. And then suddenly, startling her, she remembered that it was he who had said she was Jean's model. That was why he was staring so wildly first at her and then at the face of the girl with the drum, and back at her again, and then at the clay figure.

"It is so!" he said hoa.r.s.ely. "It is so! But wait--wait!" His hands dropped from her shoulders, and he ran from one figure to another about the studio, pausing before each one to gaze at it fixedly and intently.

"The lips--always the lips--always your lips--the wonderful, inscrutable lips that all France is forever raving about!"--the words came in sharp, broken s.n.a.t.c.hes. "Never the face in its entirety, but always the lips--and always with the lips some additional feature, the forehead, or the poise, or the eyes--always you!"

At first she followed the man with her eyes in a sort of incredulous, fearsome wonder; and then slowly, seemingly without volition of her own, drawn to it as by a magnet, she turned to face and stare at the figure of the "_Fille du Regiment_." Was it true, could it be true that it was she, her lips that Jean had made there in those lips of clay? Was that what that strange sense of familiarity had meant, and which she had not understood? No, no--Jean had forgotten, forgotten long ago! It was not true, it was not possible! And yet--and yet they _were_ her lips--her eyes would not lie to her. And this then was what had seemed to give a significance, that she could not explain at the time, to those words of Jean's of a little while ago. This man Paul Valmain had said she was Jean's model before she went upstairs, and then Jean had talked about the beacon. "It is a beacon--and it is for you, Marie-Louise, because it is you ... has it not those lips that I could fashion even in the dark?" he had said. She had not been able to connect the two things then; but now--now she knew. Jean's model--all through those two years she had been Jean's model! And yet how could it be possible! The very thought seemed to leave her abashed--it--it seemed as though she were committing a sacrilege to let herself imagine that she, who was only Marie-Louise Bernier, a fishergirl of Bernay-sur-Mer, was the model for Jean's beautiful work that made all the great people of France so proud to call him one of themselves! It was not strange that she had failed to understand what that sense of familiarity in the clay faces had meant--she would never, never have dared to think of such a thing by herself--and it would have been so far away, that thought, that of itself it would never have come. Why was she suddenly so weak now, as though a wondrous joy, so great that it overwhelmed her, was surging upon her--and why was that cold fear, that seemed to tell the joy that it was trespa.s.sing where it had no place, stirring within her? What did this thing mean for her--that those lips of clay were hers! It brought so much, so many different emotions, and each of them was so overpowering in itself, and they all came crowding so upon her at once, that it seemed she must cry out in her cruel bewilderment.

And then Paul Valmain was standing before her again.

"So!"--he flung out his arms. "So--it is out at last, the secret! He has kept you well under cover, mademoiselle!"

The words came to her with a shock, rousing her from her thoughts. He did not understand. He must not think that Jean knew; because that was why she was there now--to tell him that Jean must not know.

"No!" she said quickly. "No, no, monsieur! And, oh, monsieur, you must not let--let Jean know that I was here to-night. It--it is some mistake about--about the model, monsieur. He has not seen me since he has been in Paris, and--"

"What!" he broke in harshly. "You deny that you have been coming here?"

"Only last night, monsieur," she said eagerly. "Only last night for the first time."

"It is well that you admit at least that!" he jeered, in a sort of furious irony. "I congratulate you, mademoiselle! My profound respects! In a single visit then you have accomplished wonders, even with so beautiful a face and figure! You have made Jean Laparde famous all over the world; and you have made me perhaps--a murderer!"

She stared at him wide-eyed. What did he mean?

"But, monsieur--monsieur--I swear it to you!" she stammered. "It was only last night for the first time."

He laughed mirthlessly, and shrugged his shoulders.

"As you will, mademoiselle! A night or a thousand spent with Monsieur Laparde, it is all one to me! It is your own affair! But"--his voice rose suddenly in uncontrollable pa.s.sion--"but, _sacre nom de Dieu_, there is something that is my affair! That cloak! That hat! Where did you get them?" He was clutching with one hand at the garment, pulling at it with vicious twitches to emphasise his words.

She drew back from him, the blood hot and burning in her cheeks. A night or a thousand with Jean! He thought--he thought--_that_! And he talked of her hat and cloak! What did they matter, what did anything matter, except that--that shameful thought of his that stabbed at her, and, with its sudden pain, brought a horrible giddiness and a horrible ringing in her ears?

"Answer me!" he cried fiercely. "Why are you wearing those things now?

Where did you get them? Why were you masquerading last night in that hat and cloak, that belong to Mademoiselle Bliss, when I saw you enter here?"

"Mademoiselle Bliss!"--she could only repeat the words numbly. "It is her hat and coat?" The room seemed to swim around her. She put her hands to her eyes. A new terror was creeping upon her. The hat and cloak belonged to Mademoiselle Bliss! Vaguely, dimly, understanding began to come. He had thought that she was Mademoiselle Bliss, and because of that--no, no! The _bon Dieu_ would not let her suffer that too! It was so terrible--everything was so terrible this night--there could not be anything more, for it was already beyond what she could bear. She stretched out her hands to him imploringly. "It--it is not because you thought that I was Mademoiselle Bliss"--she was pleading piteously for a denial--"that--that you--that it is because of me you fought with Jean, and that Jean is--is--"

"Are you trying to play with me?" he rasped out savagely. "What else but that? You were here all night last night. Yes, I thought you were Mademoiselle Bliss! Yes, it was because of that I would have killed Monsieur Laparde! Is that plain enough, mademoiselle? And now will you answer me? Where did you get those things, and for what h.e.l.lish reason were you wearing them? Answer me, I tell you!" He caught her, and shook her violently. "Answer me!" he fumed.

"Yes, answer him!" came a mocking voice suddenly from the archway of the salon.

With a cry, Marie-Louise tore herself away--and, swaying, stared wildly across the room. It was mademoiselle! It was Mademoiselle Bliss standing there between the portieres!

A low laugh rippled through the _atelier_--unmusically, because it held a jarring, ominous note; and then Myrna Bliss was speaking again.

"Monsieur Vinailles told me that some girl here had made quite a _coup de theatre_," she said calmly--too calmly to be natural. She fixed her grey eyes, narrowed a little now, on Marie-Louise. "I had no idea that it was _you_. How astounding!" She swung toward Paul Valmain. "Yes; Monsieur Valmain, I have been listening behind the portieres. From the hall door, when I entered the house with Monsieur Vinailles a few moments ago, I caught sight of mademoiselle and yourself across the salon, thanks to the half open portieres; and--mademoiselle, there, will perhaps understand this better than you--in spite of my anxiety for Jean, I sent Monsieur Vinailles upstairs alone. Do I make it plain, Monsieur Valmain, that I overheard your last remarks?"

Marie-Louise glanced distractedly from one to the other. Mademoiselle Bliss was smiling--only it was a very strange smile. Why was she smiling like that? And Monsieur Valmain's face was twitching again, only it seemed that, where there had been anger before, there was now a curious mingling of confusion and pa.s.sionate eagerness.

"Then," he said, and took a step forward, "then--"

"Then," Myrna Bliss interrupted evenly, and came slowly across the _atelier_, "then, of course, I understand everything, Monsieur Valmain.

And I suppose I should feel flattered that you should take it upon yourself to avenge"--her voice was rising now, and the grey eyes were flashing dangerously--"to avenge my honour! How like a knight of old, Monsieur Valmain! How heroic! I have heard that Monsieur Valmain is one of the finest swordsmen in France; I have never heard that Monsieur Laparde was an adept at the art, but that, indeed, he was almost ignorant of it, and--"

"Mademoiselle!" he exclaimed hoa.r.s.ely. "Mademoiselle--Myrna! You have no right to say that! It is not true!" He drew himself up, clenching his hands. "By G.o.d, not even you shall say that to me, to Paul Valmain! I offered--no, I insisted that we should fight with pistols.

Laparde would not hear of it--they would make too much noise."

"Ah--a noise!" she said colourlessly. "And what then, Monsieur Valmain? Have you any other excuse for what you have done?"

"You know why I did it, if you have been listening!" he cried out.

"You know why! You know that it was because I loved you--that I love you! That my soul was in h.e.l.l with what I believed to be true!"

It seemed to Marie-Louise that she was living through some terrible, horrible dream. She reached out behind her, groping for the modelling platform, and sank down upon it. Mademoiselle's laugh was echoing through the room again, and there was something--something so menacing in it that it made her shudder.

"Love!"--Myrna Bliss was quivering with pa.s.sion, as she stepped fiercely toward Paul Valmain. "Love! If I were a man, I would kill you for that kind of love! I would kill you! You beast! You dared to think--to think that I had come here in the middle of the night alone, to--to spend the night here! You dared to think that of me!

That--that I was--"

"Myrna! Mademoiselle!"--his hands went out to her. His face was ghastly white. "Wait! For G.o.d's sake--wait! You do not understand!"

He whirled around and pointed to Marie-Louise. "Look at her! Look!

It is your cloak--your hat! It was dark across the street. She was wearing your hat and cloak!"

"I heard you say all that before!" she retorted instantly. "I do not care what she was wearing! I do not care what she looked like! You dared to think that it was me! You dared to hold me as little better than a woman of the streets! You dared to do that--you despicable hound!" Her fingers were opening and shutting spasmodically. "I hate you! I loathe you! I would strangle you for it, if I were strong enough!"

He shrank back from her, his lips working.

"You are merciless!" he said in a choked way. "You--you do not understand. You--you do not understand what helped to make me--to--why I came to be there last night. It was the key of that door there, the key of the door to the salon, the afternoon after the reception."

Myrna Bliss appeared to control herself with an effort.

"The key!"--there was well-simulated bewilderment in the quick, angry exclamation.

"When we came in," he said hurriedly. "Laparde, who was acting strangely, had just unlocked the door, and he was still holding the key in his hand without knowing it."

It was a moment before she spoke--while her eyes swept him scornfully from head to foot.

"I wish Jean had killed you!"--her lips were just parted over her clenched teeth. "So--you have the temerity to add another insult to the first! That Jean and I were together in a locked room! I remember the key now. And so Jean was acting strangely! It was to be a little surprise party for Jean--was it not? Is it strange if he were surprised then? When he heard all of you coming, laughing and talking and tramping up the stairs, he ran to the door to open it, and I remember now that the key fell out of the lock and to the floor, and that he picked it up. How amazing that perhaps he held it in his hand, Monsieur Valmain! And do you imagine, Monsieur Valmain, that it was an opportune time for me, who not only knew you were coming, but who had arranged the affair, to indulge in the amours that your vilely fertile mind--"

"Stop, mademoiselle!" he cried wildly. "I was mad--mad with my love for you. I understand too well now! I understood that I had made a terrible mistake, _miserable_ that I am, when this girl, when it was too late, came out of that dressing room there, when--when Laparde had fallen. I am a fool, a blind, senseless fool; but--but, mademoiselle, it was my love--you will forgive, you--"

"Besides a fool, you are a coward!" she said pitilessly. "But you do not understand everything yet--and you shall have no further chance to warp and twist things to suit your perverted fancy, Monsieur Valmain.

I think I could quite easily tell you where this girl, in whom you imagine you have discovered Jean's model, obtained those clothes--and if she will not tell you, I will. And then you will leave here, and you will take pains, Monsieur Valmain, that we do not meet again. Do you hear that? I tell you again that I hate you, that I loathe you, and that if I were a man I would know how to make you answer for it!"