— II —

26 RUE VANITAIRE

Myrna Bliss tapped petulantly with the toe of her small shoe on the floor of the limousine, glanced at the diamond-encircled bracelet watch on her wrist, remarked more or less abstractedly that it was a minute or so after five o'clock, and stared through the plate glass windows at the backs of her liveried chauffeur and footman. The reception of the night before had, so far as she was concerned, been marked by two incidents, which, at the present moment, were very fully occupying her thoughts.

It had required all her tact and ingenuity to avert a declaration from Paul Valmain, which would have been a disaster, because any declaration was a disaster until that moment arrived when one reached the point where one began to fear that horrible word "passée" and it became necessary to accept the inevitable—and marry. A declaration, as any one could see, whether it was accepted or refused, had its consequences—one's proprietorship in a man became either restricted to that one man alone, which in turn was very like locking one's self in a cage and handing over the key; or it was lost altogether. And Paul Valmain was almost as much run after by her set as Jean Laparde! Fancy! Only thirty, a bachelor—and already the leader of his political party! Yes, decidedly, besides being amazingly handsome and amazingly brilliant, Paul was a figure in France!

The man was passionately, madly in love with her; and so was Jean—which went without saying! Imagine! The two lions of social Paris! Nothing, not an affair, was complete without them—and she had only to lift a finger as to two slaves! Therefore social Paris was utterly and completely under her domination. She, literally, was Paris. It was very plain! So long as she exercised a proprietorship over both of them, Paris was at her feet. It was not a question of choice between them—not at all. Jean was the lion, so much so that she could even hold court with Jean alone; but with both, her position was impregnable. The trouble was—her brows puckered into anxious little furrows—that at the first opportunity Paul would renew the attack. It was very nice to have Paris at one's feet, but it was quite another matter to keep it there. Paul, of course, was the more difficult of the two to keep in hand. Jean, because he had never seemed to shake off entirely that diffidence toward her born of Bernay-sur-Mer, she had so far been able to manage quite simply, only—her eyes shifted from the chauffeur's back to the toe of her shoe, and her foot ceased its petulant tapping on the floor—that was the other incident of last night.

It had happened just after the arrival of the President. Jean had sought her out. She remembered the heightened colour in his cheeks, the sort of nervous brilliance in his eyes. He had been drunk—drunk with the wealth, the glamour, the power that was his; intoxicated with the fame, the adulation, the triumph of the moment. He was a glutton for that—for fame. There was very little else that mattered to Jean. He was the supreme type of egoist. She could dissect Jean very coolly and with precision, she thought.

"The studio, to-morrow afternoon at five, Myrna—don't fail," he had said—and had passed on.

There had been a certain air of authority in his tones—to which she had promptly taken exception, and to which, in an annoying and persistent way, she still took exception. Furthermore, it conveyed a possible, and alarming hint that his docility perhaps was wearing thin. Well, that would never do at all! She was going, of course, to the studio now—-but she would take care of Jean! Five o'clock, he had said. She would be a little late—as she intended to be. At half past five she had asked Paul Valmain and a choice circle of the younger set to drop in at 26 Rue Vanitaire, as a graceful little courtesy, so to speak, to congratulate Jean on his triumph of the night before! The grey eyes held a smile in which mockery and merriment were mingled. One's defences should always be in order!

The small shoe began to tap on the floor of the car again. What a short time—what a long time those two years had been since sleepy, anæsthetised Bernay-sur-Mer! Jean had attracted her then because he had been a "new" sensation—and he had attracted her ever since because he continued to be "the" sensation. But attraction and love were quite different, were they not? Success after success, triumph after triumph had been his. It had been astounding, stupefying, magnificent! At first it had been the inner circle of devotees of art, such as those who had gone to Bernay-sur-Mer, who had hailed him; then, in furious and bewildering sequence, Paris, then France, then Europe—and, equally, so her letters told her, he was the rage in America. None made comparisons—there were no comparisons to make. The man towered, stood alone, without rival, as the greatest sculptor of the age. And, in a sense, he had not begun. Men like old Bidelot and her father said that, stupendous as it already was, his genius had not yet attained its full development; that, marvellous as was the power, force and realism of his conceptions, the exquisite beauty of his execution, there still remained an intangible something yet to be achieved.

Myrna shrugged her pretty shoulders.

"Ah, just that tout petit chose!" old Bidelot called it. "So fleeting, so evanescent, so—so—" and he would wave his arms like a grand opera conductor. "Soul," her father called it, in his turn. "The boy hasn't lived enough yet. He'll get it, and then—well, there's only one word to describe it—immortal!"

Myrna made a wry grimace. What was the use of all that? What did they want? And what rubbish! A man whose work was incomparable, that all the world was going crazy over! And what, after all, did old Bidelot and her father know about it, anyway? Old Bidelot, for example, couldn't make a piece of clay resemble a doughnut, except for the hole, if he tried for a thousand years. And as for her father—Myrna choked a laugh.

She glanced at her watch again—and then, quickly, out of the window. It was ten minutes past five, and the car was slowing up in front of the studio. In twenty minutes the others would be here—she had told them to be prompt. Some day, it was very possible, she might marry Jean—but not yet. She was far too well contented with her life as it was! She had managed Jean and his tentative outbursts—for his docility, as she dubbed it, had not been mere tameness—with perfect success for two years; and now, if, as she was somewhat inclined to surmise, his actions of last evening presaged another, she was quite capable of managing that—for twenty minutes.

She alighted from the car, and, instructing her chauffeur that he need not wait, ran up the steps of the sort of stoop that was over the concierge's door and apartment beneath. Hector's red head and doll's-blue eyes, for once, a little to her surprise, were not in evidence on the arrival of a car. The front door, however, was not locked. She pushed it open, entered the hallway, crossed to the door of the salon, and knocked. There was no answer. There was, however, nothing strange about that—Jean, probably, was in the studio proper, the atelier beyond. Well, she would surprise him!

She opened the salon door softly, closed it softly, stepped into the centre of the large, magnificently appointed room, whose decorations and remodelling she and her father had planned; and, calmly unbuttoning her long glove, stood looking around her. And then her fingers held quite rigidly on a glove button. She had not seen him as she had entered! Jean was rising from a divan behind her, near the door. Her arm, still extended, the other hand still on the glove button, she turned her head and shoulders like a statue on a pivot, to watch him in amazement. Without a word, he had stepped swiftly to the door, locked it—and now he was putting the key in his pocket.

"Jean, what are you doing?" she exclaimed sharply.

He laughed a little—in a low way. It was the first sound he had made. She stared at him, a thrill upon her that she could not quite define—it was not fear; it was more an uncomfortable disquiet, in which surprise and bewilderment were dominant. But now, as he faced her, she noticed that the same high colour was in his cheeks, the same nervous brilliancy was in his eyes as had been there the night before—and he was not even dressed, he who was so punctilious in the late afternoons in that regard. It was as though he might have but thrown aside his big sculptor's over-dress, for he was in loose white shirt with flowing tie, and belted trousers. Usually she liked him like that; it seemed to accentuate, bring out, unfetter the splendid physique of the man; but now—she shrugged her shoulders with well-affected composure. Myrna Bliss was too self-poised to be swept from her feet by any situation. Jean was acting very strangely! What was the matter with him? She stripped off her gloves coolly, and tossed her outer wraps on a chair.

"You have been working long hours to-day perhaps, Jean"—her voice expressed cold disapproval—"you are not dressed yet."

Jean's hand swept the great shocks of hair back from his forehead, and again he laughed in the same low way.

"I have not been working to-day. I have been waiting—for five o'clock."

What did he mean? She was genuinely disturbed now. Had he been drinking—after the reception—through the night—and since? He was certainly not himself! It was outrageous, if it were not in fun, that he had locked the door! She walked across the room to the bell-cord and pulled it. The bell rang clamorously in the concierge's apartment below.

"I will have Hector prepare some coffee, while you are upstairs dressing, Jean," she said imperiously. "Now, go and dress. You are behaving in a most peculiar manner."

He made no answer—only stood there looking at her, his head thrown back on his powerful shoulders, his eyes still abnormally bright, though the flush was receding now from the strong, handsome face, that, as it grew white, grew very set. Where was Hector? She pulled the cord again. Again the bell jangled in the concierge's below.

"Hector and Madame Mi-mi, his wife, are on a holiday—with five francs apiece in their pockets—at the Bois, I think—to celebrate last night"—he jerked out the words in a colourless, even way.

She noticed that his lips twitched, that the knuckles of his hands were white because his hands at his sides were so tightly clenched. He had sent Hector and madame away—she was quite alone in the place with him. What did it mean? Jean had never been like this before. But she was at least quite mistress of herself! She drew herself up, walked back across the room, picked up her gloves and wraps, and returned to the door.

"Open that door!" she commanded levelly. "What do you mean by acting like this? How dare you act like this? Are you mad—have you lost your senses? Do you realise what you are doing?"

He laughed outright now—with sudden harshness, bitterly.

"Mad?" he repeated in a choked voice. "Yes; I am mad! I have been mad for two years—and I have been a fool. I am mad now—but I am no longer a fool. I am going to know now—I am going to have an answer now—this afternoon—before you leave this room. When are you going to marry me?"

"Marry you?"—she started back.

"Don't do that!" he flung out passionately. "Don't act! It is no surprise, that—eh? You know! Your soul knows! I love you—I have loved you since that first time on the bridge, you remember, don't you—that bridge—when your eyes turned my blood to fire? You knew it then—you know it now!"

Once she had told herself, once in those early days before familiarity, intimacy perhaps, had blunted the eager edge of curiosity and interest with which she had studied her new sensation much as one might study a specimen under a microscope, that the man was a smouldering volcano, the soul of him elemental and turbulent. It had grown dim and hazy, that little mental note of classification—but she remembered it now. It was true! Why had she ever lost sight of it? What would he do? She was not afraid, only—only—he must not have the mastery, even for a single instant. There had been eruptions before—little ones. She had always controlled him—he was just like some great, big animal—one must never let go the leash! And, besides, some day, probably, she would marry him!

She laughed now in her turn—shortly.

"And do you think, do you imagine, Monsieur Jean"—her voice rang sharply through the room—"that you will attain your object any the more readily by acting like this?"

"Yes; I think so!"—Jean was stepping toward her, reaching out his arms to grasp her.

"Jean!"—she retreated backward, with a startled cry. The man's face was positively livid, the eyes were burning into hers.

"I love you!"—his voice was hoarse, shrill, out of control. "I love you! My God, 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 passionately, 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 portières 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 Régiment," 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 passion in him like some mean, crawling thing, and thank the God 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 hell 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, sacré 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? Sacré 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 nobles, the world comes to my door and begs—do you hear, begs the entrée! What more do you ask? My God"—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 passion, passion like this, Jean was superb. To have aroused passion 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 hoarsely. "You are too damned 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, hoarse in its passion. "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. Passion, 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, God—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 crushing her in his arms, of crushing her ravishing 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! God, how she struggled! But her lips—her lips were his—his to rain his kisses of passionate 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 portières 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 passive 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 passed his hand dazedly across his eyes.

"Quick! That door!" she breathed frantically. "They must not find it locked!" She snatched up her outer wraps, slipped them on, and, with a most marvellous display of composure, assumed a languid attitude in a chair. Outwardly, Myrna Bliss was quite calm and undisturbed again. "Quick! The door—quick!" she whispered.

The door! Some one was coming! Yes, of course! His brain was reeling, stupefied. The door! He fumbled in his pocket for the key, and in a mechanical way turned it in the lock. And then they were trooping into the salon, a dozen of them, men and women.

"Wasn't it a charming idea!" some one exclaimed in effusive greeting. "But the credit is all Myrna's, of course. We've come, you know, to—"

Jean did not hear any more. With a start, he raised his head and glanced down the room. Myrna's idea—this! A little twisted smile of understanding came to Jean's lips. Self-possessed, animated, she was already the centre of a group where everybody was talking at once.

And then Paul Valmain's pale, aristocratic, esthetic face came before him. The man was bowing, murmuring polite conventionalities; only somehow the man's eyes, instead of meeting his, seemed to be set with peculiar fixedness upon some object. Automatically, Jean followed their direction with his own—to his own hand hanging at his side.

The door key was still clasped in his fingers!