Part 23 (1/2)
”I love you!”--his voice was hoa.r.s.e, shrill, out of control. ”I love you! My G.o.d, 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 pa.s.sionately, 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 pa.s.sion in him like some mean, crawling thing, and thank the G.o.d 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 h.e.l.l 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 n.o.bles, the world comes to my door and begs--do you hear, _begs_ the entree! What more do you ask? My G.o.d”--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 pa.s.sion, pa.s.sion like this, Jean was superb. To have aroused pa.s.sion 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 hoa.r.s.ely. ”You are too _d.a.m.ned_ 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, hoa.r.s.e in its pa.s.sion. ”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. Pa.s.sion, 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, G.o.d--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 crus.h.i.+ng her in his arms, of crus.h.i.+ng her ravis.h.i.+ng 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! G.o.d, how she struggled! But her lips--her lips were his--his to rain his kisses of pa.s.sionate 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 pa.s.sive 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 pa.s.sed his hand dazedly across his eyes.