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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;
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