Part 25 (1/2)

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 astonis.h.i.+ng fas.h.i.+on. 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!