"Tiens! So! But, tell me, what is the news from Monsieur Bliss? When will he return?"
"I do not know," Father Anton replied. "He has said nothing about it in his letters; but I have a letter to write him to-day, that may perhaps bring him back at once."
"Then write it, my dear Father Anton—write it, by all means!" Bidelot burst out with a vehemence that, if exaggerated, was at least sincere, as he waved his hand helplessly toward the desk. "I am in despair! I have been on the point of writing Monsieur Bliss myself."
Father Anton's eyes followed the direction of the gesture, and fixed interrogatively on the desk.
"The competitive designs," explained Bidelot. "None are worthy! It is tragic!"
But now Father Anton smiled, and shook his head, and laid his hand on Bidelot's arm.
"But Jean still lives," he said, in his gentle way. "Jean is not dead."
"It is the Church that speaks," old Bidelot answered. "I know what you mean. That is all very well, and it is also true in a material sense that men like Jean Laparde do not die; but what of the work that he had yet to do? What of that, Monsieur le Curé? Will you say that his work was finished? Then I, who went there every day, who knew so well, who looked for that final master-touch that was yet to come—I tell you, no! He had still his masterpiece before him! And then, with that achieved"—the caustic old critic's hand swept a dozen sketches from the desk to the floor—"bah, he would have no need of these in any case!—but with that achieved, then, I tell you then, that"—his hands dropped to his sides, and he shrugged his shoulders. "Ah, well, I had thought to see it before I died; and yet I, who am an old man, whose work is over, am still alive, and Jean Laparde is dead. Will you explain that, Monsieur le Curé?"
Father Anton's smile now was one of kindly amusement.
"But Jean is not dead," he said again. "It is to tell you that, that I have come."