ow? It could do no one any harm now that she
should have Jean, when Jean did not know, when perhaps--she lifted her
head quickly, lifted it far back until the white throat and bosom lay
bare; until the pure, glorious face, with its wonderful contour, its
divinely beautiful lips, tense with outraged grief, looked full into
another face that was thrust suddenly before her. It was Paul Valmain
who had done this, and he dared to come and stand over her now, and
hold in his hand the--why did she not scream out---the blade was red!

"Look! Look!"--his face ashen, Paul Valmain was pointing to the
unwrapped figure of the "_Fille du Regiment_." "The face--the lips!"
he whispered hoarsely. "The lips--it is you who are his model! It was
you--last night! That hat! That cloak! My God!" he cried out, and
the rapier, falling from his hand, clattered upon the floor. "My God,
what have I done!"

-- VI --

"JEAN MUST NOT KNOW"

Jean's model! Even in that moment, when it seemed that all else was
extraneous, that nothing mattered save that white face, that still form
on the floor, the thought brought a strange, troubled amazement--but it
was gone almost instantly, as her mind, still refusing to centre on
anything but the one great fear that perhaps Jean might die, carried
her swiftly back to what was passing around her. She looked again at
the doctor as he knelt on the floor and worked with deft fingers over
Jean, and something in those grey hairs, in that kindly face, even if
it were so grave now, gave her a little courage--surely, surely he
would not let Jean die; she looked at the man who, too, was kneeling
beside Jean--but he meant nothing to her, she could only wonder why he
was there; she looked at Paul Valmain--and shuddered. It was Paul
Valmain who had done this, who perhaps had killed Jean--and he was
still staring at her in such a fixed, horrible, fascinated way. She
rose quickly to her feet, clenching her hands.

And then the doctor, raising his head suddenly, was speaking in quiet
tones:

"I need hardly say that if Monsieur Laparde recovers, we are in honour
pledged to secrecy, messieurs. Monsieur Vinailles and I will carry
Monsieur Laparde upstairs to his bed, so that clatter-tongued concierge
and his wife will know nothing of this--and to-morrow, if they are told
that Monsieur Laparde has met with an accident it will be enough.
Monsieur Vinailles and I will attend to everything here; and I would
s