— VII —

MEA CULPA

The man frightened her. He had caught her arm the moment she had entered the salon, and had hurried her roughly across the room and into the atelier; and, besides, his face was ghastly it was so colourless, and it kept twitching, and his eyes burned with such an unnatural light.

"My arm, monsieur!" she cried out. "You are hurting me!"

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 Régiment."

"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 hoarsely. "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 snatches. "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 Régiment." 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 fashion 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 trespassing 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 passion—"but, sacré 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 hellish 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 portières!

A low laugh rippled through the atelier—unmusically, because it held a jarring, ominous note; and then Myrna Bliss was speaking again.

"Monsieur Vinailles told me that some girl here had made quite a coup de théâtre," she said calmly—too calmly to be natural. She fixed her grey eyes, narrowed a little now, on Marie-Louise. "I had no idea that it was you. How astounding!" She swung toward Paul Valmain. "Yes; Monsieur Valmain, I have been listening behind the portières. From the hall door, when I entered the house with Monsieur Vinailles a few moments ago, I caught sight of mademoiselle and yourself across the salon, thanks to the half open portières; and—mademoiselle, there, will perhaps understand this better than you—in spite of my anxiety for Jean, I sent Monsieur Vinailles upstairs alone. Do I make it plain, Monsieur Valmain, that I overheard your last remarks?"

Marie-Louise glanced distractedly from one to the other. Mademoiselle Bliss was smiling—only it was a very strange smile. Why was she smiling like that? And Monsieur Valmain's face was twitching again, only it seemed that, where there had been anger before, there was now a curious mingling of confusion and passionate eagerness.

"Then," he said, and took a step forward, "then—"

"Then," Myrna Bliss interrupted evenly, and came slowly across the atelier, "then, of course, I understand everything, Monsieur Valmain. And I suppose I should feel flattered that you should take it upon yourself to avenge"—her voice was rising now, and the grey eyes were flashing dangerously—"to avenge my honour! How like a knight of old, Monsieur Valmain! How heroic! I have heard that Monsieur Valmain is one of the finest swordsmen in France; I have never heard that Monsieur Laparde was an adept at the art, but that, indeed, he was almost ignorant of it, and—"

"Mademoiselle!" he exclaimed hoarsely. "Mademoiselle—Myrna! You have no right to say that! It is not true!" He drew himself up, clenching his hands. "By God, not even you shall say that to me, to Paul Valmain! I offered—no, I insisted that we should fight with pistols. Laparde would not hear of it—they would make too much noise."

"Ah—a noise!" she said colourlessly. "And what then, Monsieur Valmain? Have you any other excuse for what you have done?"

"You know why I did it, if you have been listening!" he cried out. "You know why! You know that it was because I loved you—that I love you! That my soul was in hell with what I believed to be true!"

It seemed to Marie-Louise that she was living through some terrible, horrible dream. She reached out behind her, groping for the modelling platform, and sank down upon it. Mademoiselle's laugh was echoing through the room again, and there was something—something so menacing in it that it made her shudder.

"Love!"—Myrna Bliss was quivering with passion, as she stepped fiercely toward Paul Valmain. "Love! If I were a man, I would kill you for that kind of love! I would kill you! You beast! You dared to think—to think that I had come here in the middle of the night alone, to—to spend the night here! You dared to think that of me! That—that I was—"

"Myrna! Mademoiselle!"—his hands went out to her. His face was ghastly white. "Wait! For God's sake—wait! You do not understand!" He whirled around and pointed to Marie-Louise. "Look at her! Look! It is your cloak—your hat! It was dark across the street. She was wearing your hat and cloak!"

"I heard you say all that before!" she retorted instantly. "I do not care what she was wearing! I do not care what she looked like! You dared to think that it was me! You dared to hold me as little better than a woman of the streets! You dared to do that—you despicable hound!" Her fingers were opening and shutting spasmodically. "I hate you! I loathe you! I would strangle you for it, if I were strong enough!"

He shrank back from her, his lips working.

"You are merciless!" he said in a choked way. "You—you do not understand. You—you do not understand what helped to make me—to—why I came to be there last night. It was the key of that door there, the key of the door to the salon, the afternoon after the reception."

Myrna Bliss appeared to control herself with an effort.

"The key!"—there was well-simulated bewilderment in the quick, angry exclamation.

"When we came in," he said hurriedly. "Laparde, who was acting strangely, had just unlocked the door, and he was still holding the key in his hand without knowing it."

It was a moment before she spoke—while her eyes swept him scornfully from head to foot.

"I wish Jean had killed you!"—her lips were just parted over her clenched teeth. "So—you have the temerity to add another insult to the first! That Jean and I were together in a locked room! I remember the key now. And so Jean was acting strangely! It was to be a little surprise party for Jean—was it not? Is it strange if he were surprised then? When he heard all of you coming, laughing and talking and tramping up the stairs, he ran to the door to open it, and I remember now that the key fell out of the lock and to the floor, and that he picked it up. How amazing that perhaps he held it in his hand, Monsieur Valmain! And do you imagine, Monsieur Valmain, that it was an opportune time for me, who not only knew you were coming, but who had arranged the affair, to indulge in the amours that your vilely fertile mind—"

"Stop, mademoiselle!" he cried wildly. "I was mad—mad with my love for you. I understand too well now! I understood that I had made a terrible mistake, misérable that I am, when this girl, when it was too late, came out of that dressing room there, when—when Laparde had fallen. I am a fool, a blind, senseless fool; but—but, mademoiselle, it was my love—you will forgive, you—"

"Besides a fool, you are a coward!" she said pitilessly. "But you do not understand everything yet—and you shall have no further chance to warp and twist things to suit your perverted fancy, Monsieur Valmain. I think I could quite easily tell you where this girl, in whom you imagine you have discovered Jean's model, obtained those clothes—and if she will not tell you, I will. And then you will leave here, and you will take pains, Monsieur Valmain, that we do not meet again. Do you hear that? I tell you again that I hate you, that I loathe you, and that if I were a man I would know how to make you answer for it!" She stepped quickly to Marie-Louise's side. "Look up at me!" she ordered curtly. "This man says that hat and cloak are mine, and it is true—they were mine. Tell him where you got them!"

Marie-Louise did not move, except that she clasped her hands together a little more tightly in her lap. She could not tell; for suddenly she thought of Father Anton, and a sense of loyalty to Father Anton insisted that she should not tell. If mademoiselle knew, as mademoiselle said, that was another matter, and she could not change that now; but to tell it herself—no, she could not do that, for that was to admit that the good curé was in the secret of her presence in Paris, and after that it would be known almost surely that he had arranged with Hector and Madame Mi-mi for her to come there to the atelier.

"Well?" prompted Myrna Bliss, sharply.

Marie-Louise shook her head.

Myrna Bliss stamped her foot angrily.

"Are you stupid enough to imagine that you are protecting Father Anton? I promise you I shall have a word with that gentleman in the morning! And since you could have got that hat and cloak nowhere else, tell Monsieur Valmain that Father Anton gave them to you, and have done with it!"

Marie-Louise looked up. Mademoiselle had said it, and—and Father Anton certainly would not deny it.

"Yes," she said under her breath. "Father Anton gave them to me."

"Well, why didn't you say so at first?" snapped Myrna. She turned again furiously on Paul Valmain. "You hear, Monsieur Valmain! You are well acquainted with Father Anton. Go to him, if you have any doubts. You have only to know now how Father Anton obtained them"—her words were curling, biting, stinging like a whiplash in their bitter scorn. "Well, listen! I and a few of my friends have become charitable since father established his fund. It is contagious, Monsieur Valmain! We, too, give bounteously to Father Anton for distribution amongst the poor—we give our discarded garments! I sent him that hat and cloak in a bundle with some other things, a few days ago. Is it quite plain, Monsieur Valmain? Are you satisfied? Well, then"—she swung an outstretched arm toward the door—"go!"

"But, mademoiselle—pour l'amour de Dieu!" he protested brokenly. "Do you not see that I am in agony, in torment for what I have done, that—"

"Go!" she raged—and stamped with her foot upon the floor again.

For a moment he stood lurching a little on his feet, as though he had been struck a blow; and then, white-faced, he drew himself up and bowed to her.

"As you will, mademoiselle!" he said in a low voice, and walked past her toward the door.

Myrna Bliss turned to watch him—and halfway across the room halted him.

"Wait!"—she pointed to the rapiers lying on the floor. "Take those things with you! And one word more, Monsieur Valmain! I do not intend to pose in Paris in the abandoned rôle you were so quick to cast me for. You perhaps understand that! I do not propose that anything shall be known of what has happened here to-night. I shall see to it that nothing is said by the others, but a word of this from you, Monsieur Valmain, or from Monsieur LeFair, who Monsieur Vinailles tells me was acting as your second, and—"

"Mademoiselle might have spared me that!" he said monotonously—and, picking up the rapiers, walked on through the salon and out into the hall.

In a sort of miserably fascinated way Marie-Louise had followed him with her eyes. She heard the outer door close behind him—and then mechanically she rose to her feet, as Myrna Bliss came and stood before her.

"So"—Myrna's voice was quivering, tense with passion—"so it remained for Monsieur Valmain to discover the secret of the wonderful, beautiful, entrancing model! Monsieur Valmain is right, of course. I knew it at once, the moment I heard him say so. I was not very clever, I suppose, or I should have seen it for myself long ago; only—you quite understand this of course—I had forgotten, utterly forgotten, that you even existed! But it seems that Jean could not live without his little peasant; nor the little peasant without Jean! It is perfectly comprehensible now why there should have been such secrecy about his model. And so you have been living with Jean, have you, ever since he came to Paris? The naïve, innocent little ingénue of Bernay-sur-Mer!"

And then Marie-Louise lifted her head high again, and, while the hot flushes came and swept her face, the great dark eyes held steadily on the grey ones that were hard and cold like steel. It was not mademoiselle of the grand monde before her any more; it was a woman whose tongue was making a sacrilege of all that was holy and cherished in her life, making a hideous mockery of her love that was so sacred and pure to her, making it a foul thing, smirching it, defiling it—it was not Mademoiselle Bliss of another world than hers whom she approached with diffidence and awe; it was a woman taunting her with a shame from which her soul recoiled, and there came surging upon her, born of the primitive, elemental life that had been hers, the days upon the oars, the nights of rugged battling with the storms, a fury that was physical in its cry for expression.

"It is not true! It is not true!" she panted—and, her hands clenched tightly, raised as though to strike, she took a quick step forward.

Startled, Myrna Bliss involuntarily sprang back—but the next instant she was laughing threateningly.

"You little spitfire!" she exclaimed angrily. "And so it is not true! Look at that statue behind you, look at any in this room, at any Jean has ever done since he has been in Paris, and—oh, yes, I see it quite plainly myself, now that I have been shown—it is you, you everywhere! And you have the brazenness, the impudence to say that you have not been living with Jean, that you have not been coming here at all hours of the night for the last two years—as you have to-night—as you did last night! Bah, you pitiful little hypocrite, would any one believe you?"

"Yes, they would believe me!" Marie-Louise cried passionately. "And you will believe me! I will make you believe me! I will make you! I will make you! I—" Her voice broke suddenly, and with a half sob she dropped her hands to her sides. Her fury had gone and in its place had come only a desperate earnestness to make mademoiselle believe. She had been thinking of herself alone—and there was Jean! If mademoiselle would not believe her, the shame would be Jean's too, and the guilt that mademoiselle imagined would be Jean's guilt too. And even if she must tell all about Father Anton bringing her to Hector and Madame Mi-mi, she must make mademoiselle believe. "Mademoiselle"—she was pleading now, her voice choking as she spoke—"mademoiselle, see—listen! You must—you must believe! It is true, every word I have said is true! And it is true that I love Jean, and that that is why I came, but—but Jean has never seen me since that day he left Bernay-sur-Mer. See, mademoiselle—listen! It is only a few days since I came to Paris—see, mademoiselle, even this hat and cloak proves it. I did not know that it was cold, that one needed such things in Paris, and I had nothing except just the clothes I had worn in Bernay-sur-Mer, and the night I came I went to Father Anton and he gave the hat and cloak to me—but I did not know, mademoiselle, that they had been yours. I wanted to see Jean again, not to let him know that I was here, but only to see him, only to see his work. It was two years, mademoiselle, two years—and Father Anton understood, only he made me promise, mademoiselle, that I would not speak to Jean, that I would not let Jean know that I was here. Listen—listen, mademoiselle!" Marie-Louise's hands were raised again—but entreatingly now. "It was only to see Jean again, and see his work, and then I was going away. For nothing, for nothing in the world would I let Jean know that I had come. And so—and so, mademoiselle, so Father Anton arranged with Hector that I should do the work about the salon and the atelier, but very early in the mornings before Jean was up; and then because I came so early Hector gave me the key—and last night—oh, mademoiselle, mademoiselle, can you not understand?—I came here, and—and I came again to-night. See, mademoiselle—it is so easy to believe! You do believe! Father Anton will tell you that it is all true, and that I have been in Bernay-sur-Mer all this time. Mademoiselle, mademoiselle—you do believe!"

Myrna Bliss was staring at Marie-Louise in startled amazement.

"You mean—you mean," she said, in a low, tense way; "you mean that Jean knows nothing of this—that he does not know that you are even in Paris, that he has not seen you since he left Bernay-sur-Mer?"

"But, yes; yes, yes, yes, mademoiselle, it is so, all that—it is so!" Marie-Louise answered feverishly. "And—and he must not know now, mademoiselle—he must not know now."

And then Myrna Bliss smiled ironically.

"I will see to that!" she said grimly. "You need have no fear on that score, if what you say is true!" She turned abruptly from Marie-Louise, walked straight to the "Fille du Régiment," and gazed at it for a moment. Then, scarcely aloud: "'The womanhood of France,' he had said ... 'The model in his heart.'" And so Jean did not know! Well, if that were so, she would take very good care that he never did know! It seemed incredible, but the girl's sincerity was not to be denied. She laughed out sharply, and wheeled back upon Marie-Louise. "Well, and what now?" she said coldly; and then, thrusting quickly: "Are you aware that I am to marry Monsieur Laparde?"

Marie-Louise's face blanched.

"Yes," she said faintly.

"And so"—the scathing tones were back in Myrna's voice—"and so you were just playing with fire! Well, are you satisfied with what you have done? If Jean Laparde lives it will be no thanks to you; if he dies it will be you who—"

Marie-Louise put out her hands as though to ward off a blow. She was swaying upon her feet.

"Not that—not that, mademoiselle!"—she could scarcely force the words to her lips. "Do not say it, mademoiselle! I know that it is true—God in his infinite pity, have pity on me!—but do not say it! I will go away, mademoiselle—I will go away—for always. I will wait only to know that—that Jean is well, for the bon Dieu will not let him die—and then—and then I will go—and then I—" A great sob shook her frame, and covering her face with her hands she sank down again upon the modelling platform.

She was conscious that Mademoiselle Bliss was standing there, that the grey eyes were fixed upon her; and then that from the salon some one called to mademoiselle—but she did not hear mademoiselle go, only when she looked up again she was alone in the atelier. And it was very kind of mademoiselle to go so softly, and to say no more.

She rose slowly to her feet, and passed through the atelier, and through the salon, and out into the hall, and to the stairs—and paused there to listen with pitiful eagerness. But there was no sound from above—there was only the voice of her soul that kept whispering so cruelly, "it is you ... it is you ... it is you ... it is not Paul Valmain who has done this ... it is you ... it is you."

And there at the foot of the stairs she knelt down for a moment; then rose, and crossed the hall slowly to the door, and opened it—and walked blindly out.