The Belovéd Traitor

by Frank L. Packard

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.