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