th 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 portieres 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 Regiment_," 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 pu