The Belovéd Traitor

by Frank L. Packard

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.