Part 28 (1/2)
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 fas.h.i.+on 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.