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and. And then a gendarme was running alongside, gesticulating furiously--but the next moment the man was touching his cap. "Ah, it is Monsieur Laparde! _Pardon, mille pardons_, Monsieur Laparde!" The man's voice dropped to a low tone, as he leaned in over the side of the car. "But if monsieur will be good enough to have a care. It will get us into trouble if we do not do our duty, and monsieur would not like that to happen. Ah, monsieur"--at Jean's five-franc piece. "Ah--" The car was off again. But now Jean laughed aloud. Fame! Who was there that did not know Jean Laparde--from the President of France to the gamin of the gutters! It began to salve a little his irritation, his ugly mood. To the devil with Father Anton--as he had just now had the pleasure of intimating to him. There was little that was empty in the fame that was his. Wealth had been poured upon him; there was nothing, nothing that was beyond his reach, nothing that he could desire and be obliged to refuse himself; and, yes--_'cre nom_, one could say it for it was true--throughout all France he was worshipped as though he were a demigod. He had only to enter a cafe anywhere, and in a moment from the tables around he would catch the whispers: "Look! There is Jean Laparde, the great sculptor!" And position--what man in all of France, or in Europe, occupied a position comparable to his! None! There was none! He would change places with no one! He owed allegiance to none; he received it from all. He received the cheers, the acclaim of the populace; the decorations of governments and royalty! And none could take this from him. It was his! And there were to be years of it--all the years he lived. He was young yet. Years of it! He was Jean Laparde, Jean Laparde, Jean Laparde--the man whose name sent a magic thrill even to his own soul. God, how he loved it all with a passion and a desire and an insatiability that was rooted in his very breath of life! The car was speeding now out through the suburbs of the great city--on--on--on! His thoughts were bringing him exhilaration in abundant measure; something in the sense of freedom, in the swift motion, brought him elated excitement. His blood was whipping buoyantly through his veins. There would be a day of this--to go somewhere, anywhere--without plan, or predetermination, this road or that, it mattered not at all--a day of it--prompted no longer by the sullen, disgruntled mood
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