"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!"