But he was virtually unknown in the United States. His tour opened on Broadway, at New York's small Phoenix Theater, where he was scheduled to play for two weeks. Critics raved -- "Marceau is the essence of theater" -- and the houses filled. His Broadway run lasted an astounding three months, and he went on to tour the country to standing-room-only crowds. By the beginning of the '60s, Marcel Marceau had become a household name.

Which is precisely what troubles him. When Marceau is gone, we won't say, "There goes one of the world's greatest mimes," but "There goes 'the' world's great mime." Marceau is mime, which is the artist's strength and the art's weakness. When the man who made the invisible visible has departed, will mime disappear with him?

"I've heard some people say I'm a 'classic,'" says Marceau. "But time goes so quickly and people forget quickly. What is really important is to remain a classic after your life. One way is to bring mime to more and more young people." Marceau hopes to keep mime alive through his Paris school, L'Ecole International de Mimodrame de Paris Marcel Marceau. He wants people to remember not just Marceau, but the art form he created. "Mimes are masters of silence," he says, "soon forgotten if they don't appear onstage regularly."

To ensure his legacy, Marceau, after gentle prodding from colleagues, agreed to form the Marcel Marceau Foundation for the Advancement of Mime in New York. Foundation board members are an eclectic mix of stars that include Michael Jackson, Placido Domingo, Barbara Hendricks and Dustin Hoffman -- all devoted fans. The foundation's primary goal is to collect and record Marceau's work. At present, he is making an educational video to teach mime to theater and dance students. And despite the naysayers and joke tellers who've already penned mime's obituary, Marceau believes mime has a bright future. "I believe in the 21st century mime will enter the field of theater as a modern art form," says Marceau. "Remember, it's taken dance 500 years to develop. We are only 50 years old."

One night recently, I phoned him at his country home, a farmhouse just outside Paris. The next day, Marceau would be leaving for a summer-long American tour. It is midnight, his time. I thank him for taking my call at such a late hour.

"But I keep theater hours, you know," he tells me in flawless English.

"You must get tired, though," I say.

"Tired?" Marceau says. "No, I would have been tired if I hadn't played. This has kept me young. My body has kept the same weight and agility it had 30 years ago."

Indeed, Marceau's still as flexible as a Slinky, but time has taken a toll on his hearing, so I find myself in the unkind position of bellowing questions at the world's only great mime. But once he understands me -- just as he had when we first met -- he talks fluidly. He tells stories about performing as a young boy, for Patton's troops, about finally meeting Chaplin in an airport and David Copperfield on an airplane. "Mr. Copperfield said to me, 'You make the invisible visible, and I make the visible invisible.' So I ask him if he could make the plane disappear. Can you imagine? What would the world think if suddenly David Copperfield and Marcel Marceau disappear in the sky?"

I type quickly to keep up while he speaks. Suddenly, he stops and says, "Hello? Hello? Are you there?"

"Yes, Mr. Marceau," I say, "I'm still here."

"Ah," he quips. "I thought perhaps you were doing mime."

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