"La Fille du Régiment!" Her hands cupping her chin, she sat there as motionless, as silent as the statue itself; sat there absorbed, unconscious of the passing time. It was strange the face should be familiar! It was strange that there, too, had been something familiar in the face of that figure in the park that Father Anton had taken her to see, in the face of every other figure that the curé had pointed out to her as Jean's work! She had gone back to look at them alone; but they, although they were finished, had not answered her question, had not told her who they were. But this one, this one was almost telling her now—there was only to come a touch, just a touch from Jean's hand—that would perhaps be there when she came to-morrow night—and then she would know.
And so she sat there, and the hours passed, and the moonlight faded, and the grey of dawn crept into the room—and Marie-Louise roused herself with a start. And at first dismay was upon her. It was morning—too late to go home! And then she shook her head, and smiled happily—happily, because she had spent glad and happy hours, and there was no need to be dismayed. Presently, she would go about her work—to which she had come early, that was all. And at her lodging, Madame Garneau would find the bed made because it was always made before she left there in the morning, before Madame Garneau was up.
— IV —
THE ACCUSATION
There was a sullen, angry set to Jean's lips, a scowl on his face that gathered his forehead into heavy furrows, as, at his accustomed morning hour, a little after nine, he entered the atelier. He had not slept well the night before—nor for the nights before that—not since that afternoon here with Myrna. How could one sleep with things in the mess they were—to say nothing of the night before last when he had not tried to sleep, and had held high revel with a few choice spirits in a sort of dare-devil challenge to the premonition that promised him a reckoning for those few moments in which he had sought to quench the passion that raged in his soul, that set his brain afire!
He crossed the room, mechanically donned his sculptor's blouse, or over-dress, threw off the wrappings from the "Fille du Régiment," picked up a modelling tool, stepped upon the platform—and stared into the face that looked back at him from the high-flung, splendid head of clay. He snarled suddenly, clenching his fist. They prated to him of secret models! Bah! It was too much for them! They could not understand—it was beyond them—that was all! It was there, all of it, the courage, the resolution, the purity, the strength, the virility of the womanhood of France—all—all—it was all there—and they thought it wonderful, incomparable—only they prated of a secret model—nom de Dieu—when it was themselves, when it was France that was the model—and they had not grasped the apotheosis of their separate individualities in the sublime glory of the composite whole! Ha, ha—perhaps it was because they were modest!
He smiled with intolerant contempt. They prated of a secret model, they applauded, they cheered, they showered him with wealth, with fame, the world knew the name of Jean Laparde—and, because they were unable to comprehend, they asked for something more, something that, no doubt, should label his work like raised letters for the blind—and then perhaps it would be only to find that they had still to acquire the alphabet! Bah—it was sickening, that! But it was also maddening! There was old Bidelot, who came each day to the studio. Bidelot was a fool—a senile old fool, who sat and wept weak tears because the statue was so beautiful; and wept weaker tears because, like a spoilt child, he cried for something that he wanted without knowing what it was!
"You talk—you rant—you whimper—you bemoan!" he had flared out angrily at Bidelot yesterday afternoon. "Well, what is it? Do you find it a pitiful affair, then, my 'Fille du Régiment'?"
"Ah, Jean! Ah, no! Ah, no!" old Bidelot had cried. "It is not that! It is exquisite, it is magnificent, it is superb, it transcends anything the world has ever seen. It is so great that if only there were a little something, ah, mon Jean, a little something, it would be the work of a god and not a man!"