"And that something? What is it?" he had demanded.
And old Bidelot had wrung his hands, and the tears had coursed down his cheeks.
"I do not know! I do not know!" the famous critic had answered almost hysterically. "If I knew I would tell you. It is but a touch—but a touch."
Old Bidelot was emotional—an ass! Old Bidelot was fast approaching his dotage! Jean shrugged his shoulders wrathfully. It was not true, of course! It lacked nothing, that face—and yet—and yet that sort of thing disquieted him, irritated him. It was a masterpiece—and its only fault was that it had not been made by a god! Ciel! Was there ever anything more absurd than that! Well, in any event, it was to bring him one hundred and twenty-five thousand francs; and his next commission, which was for the Government of France, would be for double that amount. Old Bidelot and his "touch"! For France, when this was finished, he would do that dream statue, if—damn that dream statue!
Jean snarled again. What was the matter with him! The cursed thing was always in his mind; but never would it come and appear before him, lifelike and actual, that bronze figure of the woman, as once it had done. Instead, it seemed to have faded more and more completely away, until it was as invisible as the base of the statue which he had never been able to see at all, and yet at which the passers-by in his dreams had gazed with the same rapt attention as at the woman's figure—it had faded until the whole existed simply as an indistinct blur upon the memory. If he could visualise that figure again, get the detail, he could supply a base of some sort that would go with it; that would come simply enough once he got to work. Would it! He had thought until his brain was sick, for hours on end, trying to imagine a fitting subject, big enough, splendid enough to harmonise with what he remembered was the majestic beauty of the woman's figure—and the hours had only made the task seem the more beyond him, his each succeeding imaginary design the more inadequate and pitiful.
It made him angry now, increased and inflamed his already irritable and savage mood. Why had he started in to think of that! Why, in heaven's name, should he think of everything that morning that he did not want to think of! Why, when nothing else would come, should the cold, enigmatical face of Paul Valmain staring at that confounded key, come so readily before him, and—he hurled his modelling tool suddenly, savagely, into the far corner of the room; and, stepping down from the platform, pulled viciously at the bell. He was yanking his blouse off over his head, as Hector appeared.
"Get my car, Hector!" he snapped tersely. "I am going out."
Hector's blue eyes widened in amazement. The car in the morning—the morning that was sacred to work!
"The car, m'sieu?" he repeated, as though he had not heard aright.
"Yes, imbecile—the car!" Jean snapped again.