t me off
until--until the hour should come when no man or woman in the world
should put off Jean Laparde! Until--yes, _sacre 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? _Sacre 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 entree! 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!"

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 a