Part 11 (1/2)

”You, then!”--he whirled on Marie-Louise, grasping her arm fiercely.

”Who has been here?”

”But--but, m'sieu,” stammered Marie-Louise, shrinking back in affright, ”no one has been here.”

Myrna pressed forward into the room.

”Dad, what _is_ the--” She got no further.

”It is true--I am a fool. I was wrong. Look, Myrna!”--his face flushed, his eyes lighted with the fire of an enthusiast, he was at the table, lifting up the little clay figure of the fisherwoman with the outstretched arms, the beacon, in his hands again. ”Look, Myrna! No, I am not mad--I am only a fool. I, who pride myself as a critic, was fool enough for a moment to think this the work of perhaps Demaurais, or Lestrange, or Pitot--when no one of the three even in his greatest moment of inspiration could approach it! There is life in it. You feel the very soul. It is sublime! But it is more than that--it is a stupendous thing, for, since it has been freshly done, and no stranger to these people has been here, the man who did it must be one of themselves. Don't you understand, Myrna, don't you understand? The world will ring with it. It is the discovery of a genius. I make the statement without reservation. _This is the work of the greatest sculptor France will have ever known_!”

Father Anton had come forward a little timorously, lacing and unlacing his fingers. Upon Myrna's face was a sort of bewildered stupefaction.

Marie-Louise, her breath coming in little gasps, was gazing wide-eyed at the man who held in his hands her beacon, the clay figure she had seen Jean make.

”Is--is it true--what you say?” she whispered.

Henry Bliss looked at her for a moment, startled--as though he was for the first time aware of her presence.

”You--yes, of course, you must know about this, as it is in the house here,” he burst out abruptly. ”You know who made it?”

”But, yes,” said Marie-Louise, and now there was a sudden new note, a trembling note of pride that struggled for expression in her voice.

”But, yes--it was Jean Laparde.”

”Laparde--Jean Laparde?”--his voice was hoa.r.s.e in its eagerness.

”Quick!” he cried. ”Laparde--Jean Laparde? Who is Jean Laparde?”

A flush crept pink into Marie-Louise's face.

”He is my fiance,” she said.

-- VI --

THE GIFT

Father Anton, with a smile, his eyes twinkling, looked from one to the other of the group as much as to say: ”There! Is that not an altogether charming denouement?” Myrna had yet to discover herself in a situation to whose command she did not rise--inwardly a sudden confusion upon her, her face expressed a polite interest. As for Henry Bliss, the words were without any significance whatever--it was not what he wanted to know.

It was Marie-Louise, embarra.s.sed, who broke the silence.

”Will mademoiselle and monsieur look through the house now, and tell me what rooms they will occupy?”

Henry Bliss, for answer, caught Father Anton again by the shoulder.

”This Jean Laparde,” he flung out excitedly, ”you ought to know all about him! He must have done other things besides this”--he swept his hand toward the beacon, which he had now very carefully replaced on the table.

”But, of course!” declared Father Anton, still smiling. ”Mother Fregeau will a.s.sure you--forever little faces and figures out of her dough and the inside of her loaves.”

”No, no--good Lord!” exclaimed Henry Bliss. ”I mean--”