sation, for at Marseilles was
being made the plaster cast of that exquisite little figure, fashioned
so amazingly from scarcely more than mud, that marked a new epoch to
them in the world of sculpture, the birth of a supreme genius, a
surpassing glory for the art of France!

They came and watched Jean at his work; for there was clay now such as
Jean had never imagined, clay that seemed to give form itself, of its
own initiative, to wonderful conceptions. They watched and marvelled;
and at night they carried him back with them to Marseilles to fete him,
until indeed to Jean the world of yesterday was as some vast haze,
befogged, that had shut down behind him.

"In a year, with the study of technique in Paris!" murmured Henry Bliss
ecstatically.

And old Bidelot, seventy years of age, grizzle-haired, the most
caustic, bitter critic of them all, stormed in his wrath.

"Technique! You talk of technique--for _him_! He is a school in
himself--a school that will revolutionise the art. You talk of
technique for a genius awakened out of the sleep of ignorance, who in a
day accomplishes undying work that no other man in Paris, in Rome--bah!
where you will--could accomplish in twice a lifetime! You are senile,
my poor friend Bliss--you are in your dotage!"

Jean Laparde! Was it possible that this was Jean Laparde? The simple
fisherfolk stared awe-struck at each other, at the metamorphosis that
had come to Bernay-sur-Mer, at the great people who came and went, to
whom one instinctively lifted one's hat--the great people who now
lifted their hats to Jean. It was true! Could they not see with their
own eyes? One, too, then, should lift one's hat to Jean. And did not
the good Father Anton read to them from the newspapers that all France
was ringing with the name of Jean Laparde?

"_Sacre nom d'un miracle_!" swore Pierre Lachance heavily. "And once
he made clay _poupees_ for little Ninon! _Bon Dieu_, think of that!"

Bernay-sur-Mer had set Jean apart, above itself.

But the old cure was troubled in his heart. And one night, after a
week had gone since the American strangers had come to Bernay-sur-Mer,
Father Anton shook his head over his newspaper as he read of Jean
Laparde--and found difficulty with his spectacles, for his thoughts
were of Marie-Louise.

It was only a week ago that she had come to him so happily, so gladly,
the proud light in her eyes, to talk of the great thing Jean had
done--and she had chan