nd 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 Regiment,"
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;