rm. "Listen!" she
breathed. "Listen!"

It was Bidelot, the great Academician, his voice raised in impassioned
words. Through the window they could see him standing, bare-headed, in
the automobile.

"... Bernay-sur-Mer will evermore live in the hearts of Frenchmen--you
have given to France the immortal name of Jean Laparde."

Her hands, both of them now, were clasped tightly on his arm.

"Jean!" she whispered. "Jean!"

"_Mon Dieu_!"--the words came hoarsely from Jean's throat. They were
cheering again. He moved, like iron impelled to the magnet, across the
room. He looked at Myrna. He had never seen her eyes so bright.

"It is only the beginning, Jean"--she seemed half hysterical herself.
"But in Paris, Jean--in Paris you shall see!"

They were at the door, and suddenly she flung it wide open. There was
a roar of voices. She was smiling at him from the doorway. They were
shouting his name. They rushed at him, and, lifting him shoulder high,
carried him to the automobile. Fame--was this only a taste of it? No
more than that? In Paris--what was it he should see in Paris? They
were shouting again. It was like some fiery draught that his soul was
drinking in. He craved it with a lust that was passionate,
all-possessing. He cried out to those around him. He did not know
what he said. And then Bidelot was speaking to him, and the automobile
was whirling down the road, followed by the shouts of all
Bernay-sur-Mer.

All Bernay-sur-Mer? No; not all. For as the car flashed by, halfway
between the little bridge and the eastern headland, the fringe of
bushes by the roadside parted, a dark head lifted, and Marie-Louise
gazed after it. It was all so strange, and she could not quite
understand. Once, twice before, on other evenings, she had watched the
car pass. They were all of the great world those men with Jean in the
car; of the great world of which she knew nothing, only that the
village spoke of the strangers with awe. And now Jean was one of
them--and they seemed so proud of him, so proud to make him one of
themselves, these great men. And she was proud of him, too, oh, so
proud and glad and happy--only back of it all was a little chill of
dread and fear, and she could not quite understand. She had smiled at
Jean from the edge of the crowd that was clustered around the door of
the barn those days when he had been working at the clay--and then she
had stolen away and cried so bitterly. She