— V —

THE SECRET MODEL

Marie-Louise glanced quickly up at the house. Yes; it was all dark! There was no light in Hector's apartments below; nor in the salon; nor in Jean's rooms above. She had scarcely dared to look, for fear that she had come too soon, that Hector perhaps was still up, that Jean perhaps might be with some of his friends in the salon. But it was all dark. She was quite breathless, for she had run nearly all the way from Madame Garneau's in her eagerness; but that did not matter at all now, for she was not to be disappointed, since, after all, she had not come too soon. It was much earlier than it had been last night, when she had come for the first time to be all alone there in the studio in the moonlight, where the hours had passed so swiftly and been all too short; but it had seemed that the day would never end, that night would never come again, and the evening had dragged so cruelly as she had sat by her window—and so when that church clock from somewhere in the distance had struck midnight she could wait no longer, for perhaps to-night Jean would have finished the face, and perhaps to-night it would not all be so vague and trouble her so because it seemed that in some strange way it was so familiar, though she could not tell why.

She took the key from the pocket of her dress, and stole softly up the steps. How glad she was now that she had not waited any longer! She would have so much more time there in the atelier with the wonderful figures that Jean made, that were not clay at all, but that breathed and lived, and to whom she could talk about Jean, and about his great triumph, and tell them all that was in her heart, and they would listen to her and understand as no one else could, and never tell any one that she had been there. And she would not be afraid of them at all any more, not even at first, as she had been last night because they looked so ghostlike in the white cloths that were wrapped around them.

She looked hurriedly about her, then opened the door, stepped inside, and crossed noiselessly into the salon. She could not quite still the pounding of her heart, because it was night, and because it was dark, and because she was doing something that no one must know; but she was not at all afraid now. Since last night she had been so sure that there was nothing to fear. Hector and Madame Mi-mi had thought it the most natural thing to find her working there that morning when they had got up. Was it not for that she had been given the key? And to-morrow morning again when daylight came it would be the same; and now—she was hurrying through the salon to the atelier—and now she was to see that splendid, glorious figure, the "Fille du Régiment," again, and see the face that perhaps, oh, perhaps to-night, after Jean's work of the day upon it, would be finished, and that she would recognise.

She slipped between the portières into the moonlit room, and—she could not wait even to take off her cloak and turban—tiptoed eagerly, excitedly across the atelier, mounted upon the modelling platform, and threw back the white damp cloth, revealing the figure's head. And then, for a moment, she could only gaze at it, puzzled and bewildered; and then, very slowly and regretfully, she sat down upon the platform. The face had not been touched. It—it was exactly as it had been last night. Somehow, Jean had not done any work that day—or else, perhaps, he had worked on some of the other figures.

She sat staring at the face of the clay figure in a disappointment that was almost dismay—and then suddenly she smiled. After all, it was she herself who was the cause of her disappointment; she had wanted to see that face with its finished touch so much that, in her eagerness, she had quite made herself believe that she would find it so—whereas it might be days and days yet before Jean would have completed it. And instead of being disappointed, she should be very happy that the bon Dieu had made it possible for her to come here at all, to be so close to Jean, and to be able to spend these hours here with his work—and even if it were days and days before it was finished, could she not still come here every night until it was done, and could she not still be able to see it then?

As she looked around her, the white-wrapt figures seemed to nod to her and promise her that it would be so. How quiet and still it was, and how peacefully the moonlight filled the atelier—Jean's atelier. It was so different a scene from that magnificent reception where France in all its glory had honoured Jean; where the marble stairs, the lights, the throngs, the glittering uniforms, the marvellously dressed women with their furs and jewels had awed and frightened her, and yet had filled her, too, with ecstasy because it was Jean's triumph, and had brought thankfulness into her resignation because she had seen with her own eyes how great he had become and how little had been her own sacrifice to achieve so much. Yes, it was strange how different was that scene and this around her now—and yet they were both so intimate a part of Jean's life. And they were so very different to her in a personal way. She did not want to see that world of the rich and the great any more, because she could not understand it, and no one there could understand her; but here—she was so glad and happy to be here—here she could understand, and here these figures understood her when she spoke to them because they knew that she had given all she had to give, not out of her own strength but out of the strength that the bon Dieu had given her, that they might be created by Jean's hands. Here, Jean was so near to her; there, in that other world, he was so far away—so far away that she had gone utterly out of his life, even out of his thoughts.

She sighed a little as she sat there on the modelling platform; and then there came again that little smile of self-reproof, and with it a chiding shake of her head. It was well that it was so. There was no other way. It would have brought only distress and pain to Jean if he were always to remember, and—and it was far better so. The gulf between them was so wide and deep that it could never be passed, and if she were still living in Jean's heart it could only make life a very terrible thing for them both. And so—and so—yes, she should be very thankful for that, too; be very thankful for both their sakes that he had so entirely forgotten her.

The white-wrapt figures seemed to nod most gravely in assent again—it was only a tree branch in the courtyard frolicking with a moonbeam and sending a little playful shadow over them that seemed to make them move, but that was how they always talked to her, and made their understanding seem so real.

She sat quite still for a little while, gazing at the face of the "Fille du Régiment" before her; and then, clapping her hands softly together and with an impulsive little exclamation of delight she stood up excitedly. Perhaps Jean had been working upon the statue, even if he had not touched the face. And, anyway, there was more to see than just the face—the figure itself was just as wonderful, just as beautiful. Quickly, but very carefully, she loosened and removed the covering from the body and base of the figure, let the covering fall upon the floor—and, stepping back to look at it, stood suddenly transfixed, her hands pressed tightly against her bosom, her face white with fear.

Some one was coming! She strained her eyes across the atelier, holding them for an instant, fascinated, upon the portières. No, no; surely she had been mistaken! It could have been only fancy, and—a low cry came from her lips. The front door had closed; there were footsteps in the hall, a number of them it seemed; and—and that was Jean's voice!

"The salon, messieurs, if you please!"

They were coming! They were entering the salon! What could she do? She could not get away or escape! There was no way to get out! They were already in the salon! She looked wildly, helplessly around her—and then, with a little gasp that mingled relief and trepidation, her eyes fixed on the door of the models' dressing room. She began to steal toward it, holding her breath. How terribly her heart pounded! She could not go very fast, because then she would make a noise and they would hear her. And that was Jean's voice again, this time from the salon itself, from just on the other side of the portières, it seemed.

"The atelier will serve us better than this polished floor, messieurs."

Oh, if she could only reach the dressing room in time! How hoarse Jean's voice seemed to be! She was nearly there now—nearly there! If only the bon Dieu would help her! It was only a step more—just one! Now—now she was there! She slipped into the little place that was hardly any bigger than a large closet, and drew the door shut behind her, as the portières were swished apart and the rings on the pole clattered with a terrifying noise. And then she found that she was very weak, and that her knees were trembling as though they would give way beneath her.

It was very dark. She dared not move for fear she might knock into something and make a noise. She told herself that she must stand very still. She could hear them out in the atelier now in a muffled sort of a way; they were walking around and around, and it sounded as though they were moving things about. And then she seemed to go cold with fear again, and a sense of dismay surged upon her. The "Fille du Régiment" was uncovered! She had had no time, even if she had thought of it, to replace the covering. What would Jean do? Would he think it was an accident, that the wrapping had been carelessly done, would he blame Hector, or—would he think some one had been there, that some one was perhaps there now, and—and suppose he should come to the dressing room door, and open it, and—and find her there!

She was frightened now, terribly afraid—more afraid than she had ever been in her life before. If Jean should find her there, what would he think of her? The blood rushed in a fierce crimson tide to her face. She would rather die than that! But it was not only herself, it was not only that—there was Jean. She had no right to obtrude herself into his life and to disturb it. But surely—surely the bon Dieu would keep him away from the door! She had been very foolish and very wicked ever to have come, ever to have risked so much, only the temptation had been so great, and her heart had pleaded so hard; but—but if only no harm should come of it all this time, she would promise that—that she would not come there any more like this at night.

Perhaps he had not seen it! Perhaps he had not noticed it! And yet it was not just moonlight out there any more, and the atelier was lighted now, for she could see the tiny rays as they filtered in under the door where it did not fit well over the threshold. She listened intently, almost expecting to hear Jean cry out about the covering of the "Fille du Régiment," but they still seemed to be moving around a great deal, and the voices were indistinguishable, and she could understand nothing of what they were saying, except only a name that she caught because it was repeated several times—the name of Paul Valmain. It seemed somehow to be familiar. Yes; she remembered. He was one of Jean's friends of the grand monde, the man that Father Anton had pointed out beside Monsieur and Mademoiselle Bliss in that group with Jean on the night of the great reception.

It seemed as though hours were passing as she stood there. It seemed to grow unbearably hot in that small, dark place; it seemed even that it was hard to breathe. Perhaps it was her fear that was suffocating her! She unfastened the black velvet cloak and let it hang more loosely, wide apart, upon her shoulders—and held her hand agitatedly upon her bare throat, that was now exposed by the low-necked blouse. Would they never go! And what were they doing there? It was very strange! They seemed to keep on tramping and even running around, and there was no sound of voices now—only a most peculiar sound that made her think of Papa Fregeau when he stood in the kitchen of the Bas Rhône and sharpened his carving knife on his long bone-handled steel.

Then all grew suddenly quiet—and the quiet was as suddenly broken by a voice, loud enough and distinct enough for her to hear.

"It is nothing! But a touch, monsieur—continue!"

Marie-Louise's eyes widened, and slowly her form grew rigid and tense, and her hand at her throat slipped away and caught at the neck of her blouse, and in a spasmodic clutch tore it wider apart. That voice—she did not know whose it was—but there was no mistaking the cold, sullen fury in it. And the tramping of feet had begun again—and that sound again, the rasp of steel, was hideous now, bringing her a sickening dread.

It was as though for a moment she were too stunned to move. They were fighting out there in Jean's atelier—with—with swords. And perhaps—perhaps it was Jean who was fighting. And if—if he should be—no, no!—she dare not even let the thought take form in her mind. But she must see—somehow, she must see! How dark it was, and how those sounds brought terror now! She could not stand there and—and think; she must see that at least it was not Jean, or else—or else she would scream out in her agony of suspense.

She groped out with her hand for the door. She could open it very silently, just a little way—they would be too occupied to notice it. Her hand trembled as it fell upon the knob. She pushed the door open a crack, an inch. There seemed to burst in upon her, in upon the contrasting utter darkness, a blinding light that dazzled her so that she could see nothing; and to burst in upon her a horrible riot of noise—heavy, panting gasps for breath, the quick shuffle of feet upon the floor, the grating, the ring, the metallic grinding of rapier blades.

In terror, she pushed the door open another inch—and held it rigidly, as, suddenly, her heart seemed to stop its beat. There came a gurgling moan—then—then an instant's deathlike silence—and then, with a wild cry, she flung the door wide open, and, as it crashed back against the wall, she stumbled out into the atelier.

She could see now, but it was as though it were not herself at all who looked around the room, for her brain seemed suddenly to be acting in an impersonal, numbed, apathetic way. She could see everything very clearly, but it was as though some one else, not she, were seeing it. She stretched out her arms before her like one who was blind to feel her way, and started across the atelier. She should have run, she should have run so fast, so fast, something within her told her she should run, but her limbs seemed scarcely able to support her weight—she could only stumble across the atelier with her arms stretched out. That was not Jean who stood in the centre of the room holding a rapier in his hand, it was Paul Valmain. And the man who stood beside Paul Valmain was not Jean. And there were two other men, but neither of them was Jean. But they held a silent, grey-faced, unconscious form in their arms that they were lowering to the floor—and that was Jean. And they looked at her as she came, looked at her in so strange and startled a way; and Paul Valmain took a step toward her, and cried out, and drew suddenly back—and then—and then she was on her knees, and Jean's head was gathered into her arms, and he was so white, so terribly white, and he made no sound—and—and—

"Jean! Jean!"—she was crying his name passionately, piteously, crying it over and over again. "Jean! Jean!"

And he made no answer—only lay there white and still. And then some one took her arm and tried to draw her away—and some one spoke to her.

"Mademoiselle must permit me," the voice said gravely. "I am the doctor."

They took Jean from her, and the man who had said he was the doctor bent over Jean—and, still on her knees, she watched them. Why should they take him from her—now? It could do no one any harm now that she should have Jean, when Jean did not know, when perhaps—she lifted her head quickly, lifted it far back until the white throat and bosom lay bare; until the pure, glorious face, with its wonderful contour, its divinely beautiful lips, tense with outraged grief, looked full into another face that was thrust suddenly before her. It was Paul Valmain who had done this, and he dared to come and stand over her now, and hold in his hand the—why did she not scream out—-the blade was red!

"Look! Look!"—his face ashen, Paul Valmain was pointing to the unwrapped figure of the "Fille du Régiment." "The face—the lips!" he whispered hoarsely. "The lips—it is you who are his model! It was you—last night! That hat! That cloak! My God!" he cried out, and the rapier, falling from his hand, clattered upon the floor. "My God, what have I done!"