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.