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diff --git a/14054-h/14054-h.htm b/14054-h/14054-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bf71e4b --- /dev/null +++ b/14054-h/14054-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9301 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<html> +<head> +<meta name="generator" content= +"HTML Tidy for Windows (vers 1st February 2004), see www.w3.org"> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content= +"text/html; charset=UTF-8"> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Max, by Katherine Cecil +Thurston.</title> + +<style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + text-indent: 2em; + } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + } + H1 {font-size: 5em;} + HR { width: 33%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 15%; + margin-right: 15%; + } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .poem {margin-left:15%; margin-right:15%; text-align: left;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span {display: block; margin: 0; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 2em;} + .poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 4em;} + .poem .caesura {vertical-align: -200%;} + + .toc {margin-left:40%; margin-right:15%; text-align: left;} + .toc span {display: block; margin: 0; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .toc span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 2em;} + + .loi {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; text-align: center;} + .loi span {display: block; margin: 0; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + + .first {display: block; text-align: left; text-indent: 2em} + .first:first-letter {font-size: 2em;} + + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ +</style> +</head> +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14054 ***</div> + +<a name="front"></a> +<center><img src="images/front.jpg" width="400" height="617" alt= +""I HAVE WAITED ALL MY LIFE FOR THIS""></center> +<h5>"I HAVE WAITED ALL MY LIFE FOR THIS"</h5> +<br> +<h1>MAX</h1> +<h3>A NOVEL</h3> +<h3>BY</h3> +<h2>KATHERINE CECIL THURSTON</h2> +<h4>AUTHOR OF<br> +"THE MASQUERADER"<br> +"THE GAMBLER" ETC.</h4> +<br> +<h4>ILLUSTRATED BY</h4> +<h3>FRANK CRAIG</h3> +<br> +<h5>HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS<br> +NEW YORK AND LONDON<br> +MCMX</h5> +<br> +<h4>Published September, 1910.</h4> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<h2>TABLE OF CONTENTS</h2> +<br> +<div class="toc"><span><a href= +'#ILLUSTRATIONS'><b>ILLUSTRATIONS</b></a></span><br> +<span><a href='#PART_I'><b>PART I</b></a></span> <span class= +"i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_I'>CHAPTER I</a></span> <span class= +"i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_II'>CHAPTER II</a></span> <span class= +"i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_III'>CHAPTER III</a></span> <span class= +"i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_IV'>CHAPTER IV</a></span> <span class= +"i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_V'>CHAPTER V</a></span> <span class= +"i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_VI'>CHAPTER VI</a></span> <span class= +"i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_VII'>CHAPTER VII</a></span> <span class= +"i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_VIII'>CHAPTER VIII</a></span> <span class= +"i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_IX'>CHAPTER IX</a></span> <span class= +"i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_X'>CHAPTER X</a></span> <span class= +"i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_XI'>CHAPTER XI</a></span><br> +<span><a href='#PART_II'><b>PART II</b></a></span> <span class= +"i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_XII'>CHAPTER XII</a></span> <span class= +"i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_XIII'>CHAPTER XIII</a></span> <span class= +"i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_XIV'>CHAPTER XIV</a></span> <span class= +"i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_XV'>CHAPTER XV</a></span> <span class= +"i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_XVI'>CHAPTER XVI</a></span> <span class= +"i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_XVII'>CHAPTER XVII</a></span> <span class= +"i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_XVIII'>CHAPTER XVIII</a></span> <span class= +"i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_XIX'>CHAPTER XIX</a></span> <span class= +"i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_XX'>CHAPTER XX</a></span> <span class= +"i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_XXI'>CHAPTER XXI</a></span><br> +<span><a href='#PART_III'><b>PART III</b></a></span> <span class= +"i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_XXII'>CHAPTER XXII</a></span> <span class= +"i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_XXIII'>CHAPTER XXIII</a></span> <span class= +"i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_XXIV'>CHAPTER XXIV</a></span> <span class= +"i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_XXV'>CHAPTER XXV</a></span> <span class= +"i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_XXVI'>CHAPTER XXVI</a></span> <span class= +"i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_XXVII'>CHAPTER XXVII</a></span> <span class= +"i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_XXVIII'>CHAPTER XXVIII</a></span> +<span class="i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_XXIX'>CHAPTER XXIX</a></span> +<span class="i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_XXX'>CHAPTER XXX</a></span> +<span class="i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_XXXI'>CHAPTER XXXI</a></span> +<span class="i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_XXXII'>CHAPTER XXXII</a></span> +<span class="i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_XXXIII'>CHAPTER +XXXIII</a></span> <span class="i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_XXXIV'>CHAPTER +XXXIV</a></span> <span class="i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_XXXV'>CHAPTER +XXXV</a></span><br> +<span><a href='#PART_IV'><b>PART IV</b></a></span> <span class= +"i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_XXXVI'>CHAPTER XXXVI</a></span> <span class= +"i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_XXXVII'>CHAPTER XXXVII</a></span> +<span class="i2"><a href='#CHAPTER_XXXVIII'>CHAPTER +XXXVIII</a></span> <span class="i2"><a href= +'#CHAPTER_XXXIX'>CHAPTER XXXIX</a></span> <span class="i2"><a href= +'#CHAPTER_XL'>CHAPTER XL</a></span> <span class="i2"><a href= +'#CHAPTER_XLI'>CHAPTER XLI</a></span></div> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='ILLUSTRATIONS'></a> +<h2>ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> +<br> +<div class="loi"><span><a href="#front">"I HAVE WAITED ALL MY LIFE +FOR THIS"</a></span> <span><a href="#standing">STANDING AGAIN IN +THE OUTER COURT OF A HOUSE IN PETERSBURG</a></span> <span><a href= +"#souls">TWO SOULS, DRAWN TOGETHER, TOUCHED IN A FIRST SUBTLE +FUSION</a></span> <span><a href="#clever">"WHY, BOY, THIS IS +CLEVER—CLEVER—CLEVER!"</a></span> <span><a href= +"#mystery">THE IMPRESSION OF A MYSTERY FLOWED BACK UPON +HIM</a></span> <span><a href="#look">"LOOK! THIS IS WHAT I SHALL +DO. THIS!"</a></span> <span><a href="#woman">THE COMPLETE SEMBLANCE +OF THE WOMAN</a></span> <span><a href="#eternal">"<i>C'EST LA VIE! +L'ETERNELLE, LA TOUTE-PUISSANTE VIE!</i>"</a></span></div> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='PART_I'></a> +<h2>PART I</h2> +<br> +<br> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<h2><big>MAX</big></h2> +<br> +<a name="CHAPTER_I"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER I</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">A NIGHT journey is essentially a thing of +possibilities. To those who count it as mere transit, mere linking +of experiences, it is, of course, a commonplace; but to the +imaginative, who by gift divine see a picture in every cloud, a +story behind every shadow, it suggests romance—romance in the +very making.</div> +<p>Such a vessel of inspiration was the powerful north express as +it thundered over the sleeping plains of Germany and France on its +night journey from Cologne to Paris. A thing of possibilities +indeed, with its varying human freight—stolid Teutons, +hard-headed Scandinavians, Slavs whom expediency or caprice had +forced to descend upon Paris across the sea of ice. It was the +month of January, and an unlikely and unlovely night for long and +arduous travel. There were few pleasure-passengers on the express, +and if one could have looked through the carriage windows, blurred +with damp mist, one would have seen upon almost every face the +look—resigned or resolute—of those who fare forth by +necessity rather than by choice. In the sleeping-cars all the +berths were occupied, but here and them throughout the length of +the train an occasional traveller slept on the seat of his +carriage, wrapped in coats and rugs, while in the dining-saloon a +couple of sleepy waiters lurched to and fro in attendance upon a +party of three men whose energy precluded the thought of wasting +even the night hours and who were playing cards at one of the small +tables. Up and down the whole overheated, swaying train there was +the suggestion of mystery, of contrast and effect, and the +twinkling eyes of the electric lamps seemed to wink from behind +their drawn hoods as though they, worldly wise and watchful, saw +the individuality—the inevitable story—behind the +drowsy units who sat or lay or lounged unguarded beneath them.</p> +<p>In one carriage, the fifth or sixth from the thundering engine, +these lights winked and even laughed one to the other each time the +train lurched over the points, and the dark, shrouding hoods +quivered, allowing a glimpse at the occupant of the +compartment.</p> +<p>It was the figure of a boy upon which the twinkling lamp-eyes +flickered—a boy who had as yet scarce passed the barrier of +manhood, for the skin of the face was clean and smooth, and the +limbs, seen vaguely under a rough overcoat, had the freedom and +supple grace that belongs to early youth.</p> +<p>He was sleeping, this solitary traveller—one hand under +his head, the other instinctively guarding something that lay deep +and snug in the pocket of his overcoat. His attitude was relaxed, +but not entirely abandoned to the solace of repose; even in his +sleep a something of self-consciousness seemed to cling to +him—a need for caution that lay near to the surface of his +drowsing senses—for once or twice he started, once or twice +his straight, dark eyebrows twitched into a frown, once or twice +his fingers tightened nervously upon their treasure. He was +subconsciously aware that, deserted though the compartment was, it +yet exhaled an alien suggestion, embodied in the rugs, the coats, +the hand-baggage of the card-playing travellers, which was heaped +upon the seat opposite.</p> +<p>But, despite this physical uneasiness, he was dreaming as the +train tore along through the damp, peaceful country—dreaming +with that odd confusion of time and scene that follows upon keen +excitement, stress of feeling or stress of circumstance.</p> +<p>As he dreamed, he was standing again in the outer court of a +house in Petersburg—a house to which he was debtor for one +night's shelter; it was early morning and deadly cold. The whole +picture was sharp as a cut crystal—the triple court-yard, the +stone pavement, the gray well, and frozen pile of firewood. He saw, +recognized, lost it, and knew himself to be skimming down the +Nevskiy Prospekt and across the Winter Palace Square, where the +great angel towers upon its rose-granite monument. Forward, forward +he was carried, along the bank of the frozen Neva and over the +Troitskiy bridge, the powdered snow stinging his face like +pinpoints as it flew up from the nails in his little horse's shoes. +Then followed a magnifying of the picture—massed buildings +rising from the snow—buildings gold and turquoise-domed, +that, even as they materialized, lost splendor and merged into the +unpretentious frontage of the Finland station.</p> +<p>The scroll of the dream unwound; the dreamer moved, easing his +position, shaking back a lock of dark hair that had fallen across +his forehead. He was no longer rocking to the power of the north +express; he was standing on the platform at the end of a little +train that puffed out of the Finland station—a primitive, +miniature train, white with frost and powdered with the ashes of +its wood fuel. The vision came and passed a sketch, not a +picture—a suggestion of straight tracks, wide snow plains, +and the blue, misty blur of fir woods. Then a shifting, a juggling +of effects! Åbo, the Finnish port, painted itself upon his +imagination, and he was embarked upon the lonely sledge-drive, to +the harbor. He started in his sleep, shivered and sighed at that +remembered drive. The train passed over new points, the hoods of +the lamps swayed, the lights blinked and winked, and his mind swung +onward in response to the physical jar.</p> +<p>Åbo was obliterated. He was on board a ship—a ship +ploughing her way through the ice-fields as she neared Stockholm; +salt sea air flicked his nostrils, he heard the broken ice tearing +the keel like a million files, he was sensible of the crucial +sensation—the tremendous quiver—as the vessel slipped +from her bondage into the cradle of the sea, a sentient thing +welcoming her own element!</p> +<p>The heart of the dreamer leaped to that strange sensation. He +drew a long, sharp breath, and sat up, suddenly awake. It was over +and done with—the coldness, the rigor, the region of ice +bonds! The fingers of the future beckoned to him; the promises of +the future lapped his ears as the waves had lapped the ship's +sides.</p> +<p>He looked about him, at first excitedly, then confusedly, then a +little shamedfacedly, for we are always involuntarily shamed at +being tricked by our emotions into a false conception. Drawing his +hand from his coat-pocket, he stretched himself with an assumption +of ease, as though he saw and recognized the twinkle in the +electric lamps and spontaneously rose to its demands.</p> +<p>The train was flying forward at unabated speed. Outside, the raw +January air was clinging in a film to the carriage window; inside, +the dim light and overheated air made an artificial atmosphere, +enervating or stimulating according to the traveller's gifts. To +this solitary voyager stimulation was obviously the effect +produced, for, try as he might to cheat the inquisitive lamps, +interest in every detail of his surroundings was portrayed in his +face, in the poise of his head, the quickness of his glance as he +gazed round the compartment, verifying the impression that he was +alone.</p> +<a name="standing"></a> +<center><img src="images/ill004.jpg" width="400" height="616" alt= +"STANDING AGAIN IN THE OUTER COURT OF A HOUSE IN PETERSBURG"></center> +<h5>"STANDING AGAIN IN THE OUTER COURT OF A HOUSE IN +PETERSBURG"</h5> +<p>Yes, he was absolutely alone! Everything was as it had been when +he settled himself to sleep on the departure of the three +strangers. There, on the opposite seat, were their rugs, their +fur-lined coats, their illustrated papers—all the impedimenta +of prosperous travellers; and there, on the rack above them, was +his own modest hand-bag without initials or label—a common +little bag that might have belonged to some poor Russian clerk or +held the possessions of some needy Polish student. The owner's +glance scanned and appraised it, then by suggestion fell to the +plain rough overcoat that covered him from his neck to the tops of +his high boots, and whose replica was to be seen any day in the +meaner streets of Petersburg or Moscow. Like the bag, it was a +little strange, a little incongruous in its comfortable +surroundings—a little savoring of mystery.</p> +<p>The traveller's pulses quickened, his being lifted to the +moment, for in his soul was the spark of adventure, in his eyes the +adventurous look—fearless, observant, questioning. In +composition, in expression and essence, this boy was that free and +fascinating creature, the born adventurer—high of courage, +prodigal of emotion, capturer of the world's loot.</p> +<p>The spirit within him shone out in the moment of solitude; he +passed his hands down the front, of his coat, revelling in its +coarse texture; he rose to his feet, turned to the sheet of gray, +misted glass, and, letting down the window, leaned out into the +night.</p> +<p>The scene was vague and ghostly, but to eyes accustomed to +northern whiteness it was full of suggestion, full of secrecy; to +nostrils accustomed to keen, rarefied air there was something +poignant and delicious in the scent of turned earth, the savor of +vegetation. He could see little or nothing as the train rocked and +the landscape tore past, but the atmosphere spoke to him as it +speaks to blind men, penetrating his consciousness. Here were open +spaces, tracts of country fructifying for the spring to come. A +land of promise—of growth—of fulfilment!</p> +<p>He closed his eyes, living in the suggestion, and his spirit +sped forward with the onrush of the train. Somewhere beyond the +darkness lay the land of his desires! Somewhere behind the veil +shone the lights of Paris! With a quick, exulting excitement he +laughed; but even as the laugh was caught and scattered to the +winds by the thunder of the engine, his bearing changed, the +excitement dropped from him, a mask of immobility fell upon his +face, and he wheeled round from the window. The card-playing +travellers had opened the door of the carriage.</p> +<p>From his shadowy corner the boy eyed them; and they, alert from +their game, slightly dazed by the darkness of the carriage, peered +back at him, frankly curious. When they had left the compartment he +had been a huddled figure demanding no attention; now he was awake +and an individual, and human nature prompted interest.</p> +<p>Each in turn looked at him, and at each new glance his coldness +of demeanor deepened; until, as the eldest of the party came down +the carriage and appropriated the seat beside him, he turned away, +pulling up the window with resentful haste.</p> +<p>"Don't do that!" said the third man, pausing in the doorway and +speaking in French easily and pleasantly. "Don't do that—if +you want the air!"</p> +<p>The boy started and looked round.</p> +<p>"I thank you! But I do not need the air!"</p> +<p>The man smiled acquiescence, but as he stepped into the carriage +he took a sharp look at the boy's clothes—the common Russian +clothes—and a slightly questioning, slightly satirical +expression crossed his face. He was a man who knew his world the +globe over, and in his bearing lurked the toleration, the kindly +scepticism that such knowledge breeds.</p> +<p>"As you please!" he said, settling himself comfortably in the +corner by the door, while the elder of his companions—a tall, +spare American—crossed his long legs and lighted a thin black +cigar, and the younger—a spruce young Englishman wearing an +eye-glass and a small mustache—wrapped himself in his rugs, +took a clean pocket-handkerchief from his dressing-case, and opened +a large bundle of illustrated papers—French, German, and +English.</p> +<p>For a space the train rocked on. No one attempted to speak, and +the Russian boy continued to stand by the window, pretending to +look through the blurred panes, in reality wondering how he could +with least commotion pass down the carriage to his own vacated +place.</p> +<p>At last the man with the long cigar broke the silence in a slow, +cool voice that betrayed his nationality.</p> +<p>"We're well on time, Blake," he remarked, drawing out his +watch.</p> +<p>The youth by the window shot an involuntary, fleeting glance at +the two younger men, to see which would answer to the name; and the +student of human nature noted the fact that he understood +English.</p> +<p>"Oh, it's a good service!" he acquiesced, the tolerant +look—half sceptical, half humorous—- passing again over +his face.</p> +<p>"I don't know! I think we could do with another few kilometres +to the hour." The thin man studied his flat gold watch with the +loving interest of one to whom time is a sacred thing.</p> +<p>At this point the youngest of the three raised his head.</p> +<p>"Marvellous sight you have, McCutcheon! Wish I could see by this +light!"</p> +<p>McCutcheon leaned forward, replacing his watch. "What! Can't you +see your picture-books? Let's have the blinkers off!" He rose, his +long, spidery figure stretching up like a grotesque shadow, but as +his arm went out to the nearest of the shrouded lamps he was +compelled to draw back against the seat of the carriage, and an +exclamation of surprise escaped him.</p> +<p>Without warning or apology the Russian boy had turned from the +window, and stepping down the carriage, had tumbled into his former +seat, hunching himself up with his face to the cushions and his +back to his fellow-travellers.</p> +<p>It was a sudden and an uncivil proceeding. The man called Blake +smiled; the Englishman shrugged his shoulders; the American, with a +movement of quiet determination, drew back the lamp hoods.</p> +<p>In the flood of light the carriage lost its air of mystery, and +Blake, who had a fancy for the mysterious, dropped back into his +corner and took out his cigar-case with a little feeling of regret. +In traversing the world's pathways, beaten or wild, he always made +a point of seeing the story behind the circumstance; and, had he +realized it, a common instinct bound him in a triangular link to +the peering, winking lamps, and to the Russian boy lying unsociably +wrapped in his heavy coat. All three had an eye for an +adventure.</p> +<p>But the lights were up, and the curtain down—it was a +theatre between the acts; and presently the calculating voice of +McCutcheon broke forth again, as he relapsed into his original +attitude, coiling up his long limbs and nursing his cigar to a +glow.</p> +<p>"I can't get over that 'four jacks,'" he said. "To think I could +have been funked into seeing Billy at fifty!"</p> +<p>Blake laughed. "'Twas the eye-glass did it, Mac! A man shouldn't +be allowed to play poker with an eye-glass; it's taking an undue +advantage."</p> +<p>McCutcheon smiled his dry smile and shot a quizzical glance at +the neat young Englishman, who had become absorbed in one of his +papers.</p> +<p>"Solid face, Blake!" he agreed. "Nothing so fine as an eye-glass +for sheer bluff. What would Billy be without one? Well, perhaps we +won't say. But with it you have no use for doubt—he's a +diplomat all the time."</p> +<p>The young man named Billy showed no irritation. With the +composure which he wore as a garment, he went on with his +occupation.</p> +<p>For a time McCutcheon bore this aloofness, then he opened a new +attack. "What are you reading, my son? Makes a man sort of want his +breakfast to see that hungry look in your eyes. Share the +provender, won't you?"</p> +<p>Billy looked up sedately.</p> +<p>"You fellows think my life's a game," he said. "But I tell you +it takes some doing to keep in touch with things."</p> +<p>Blake laughed chaffingly. "And the illustrated weekly papers are +an excellent substitute for Blue-books?"</p> +<p>Billy remained undisturbed. "It's all very well to scoff, but +one may get a side-light anywhere. In diplomacy nothing's too +insignificant to notice."</p> +<p>Again Blake laughed. "The principle on which it offers you a +living?"</p> +<p>"Oh, come," said Billy, "that's rather rough! You know very well +what I mean. 'Tisn't always in the serious reports you get the +color of a fact, just as the gossip of a dinner-table is often more +enlightening than a cabinet council."</p> +<p>"Apropos?"</p> +<p>"I was thinking of this Petersburg affair."</p> +<p>"What? The everlasting Duma business?" McCutcheon drew in a long +breath of smoke.</p> +<p>Billy looked superior, as befitted a man who dealt in subtler +matters than mere politics. "Not at all," he said. "The +disappearance of the Princess Davorska."</p> +<p>Here Blake made a murmur of impatience. "Oh, Billy, don't!" he +said. "It's so frightfully banal."</p> +<p>McCutcheon took his cigar from his mouth. "The woman who +disappeared on the eve of her marriage?"</p> +<p>"Yes," broke in Blake, "disappeared on the eve of her marriage +to elope with some poet or painter, and set society by the ears. +Thoroughly modern and banal!"</p> +<p>The young diplomat glanced up once more.</p> +<p>"I don't think there's any suggestion of a lover."</p> +<p>"Fact is more potent than suggestion, Billy. Of course there is +a lover. Princesses don't disappear alone."</p> +<p>"You're a Socialist, Ned." Billy's eyes returned to his paper. +"Like all good Socialists, crammed to the neck with class bigotry. +Nobody is such an individualist as the man who advocates +equality!"</p> +<p>Blake smiled. "That seems to sound all right," he said; "but it +doesn't remove the lover."</p> +<p>The good-humored scepticism at last forced a way to Billy's +susceptibilities.</p> +<p>"Look here," he said, crossly, "if hearing's not believing, +perhaps seeing is! Look at these pictures; they're not particularly +modern or banal."</p> +<p>He held out his paper, but Blake shook his head.</p> +<p>"No! No, Billy, not for me. If it was some little Rumanian gypsy +who had run away from her tribe I'd take her to my heart and +welcome. But a Princess Davorska—no!"</p> +<p>At this point McCutcheon stretched out his long arm and took the +paper from Billy's hand. "Let's have a squint!" he said. "Lover or +no lover, she must be a bit wide awake." And, curling himself up +again, he began to read from the paper, in a monotonous murmuring +voice: "'<i>The Princess, as well as being a woman of artistic +accomplishments, is an ardent sportswoman, having in her early +girlhood hunted and shot with keen zest on her father's estates. +The above picture shows her at the age of seventeen, carrying a +gun</i>.' By the Lord, she is wide awake!" he added, by way of +comment. "She is wide awake carrying that gun, but I'd lay my money +on the second picture. Say, Billy, she looks a queen in her court +finery!"</p> +<p>But here real disgust crossed Blake's face. "Oh, that'll do, +Mac! Give us peace about the woman. I'm sick to death of all such +nonsense. We're due in a couple of hours. I think I'll try for +forty winks." He threw away his cigar and tucked his rug about +him.</p> +<p>McCutcheon glanced at him, and, seeing that he was in earnest, +handed the paper back to Billy.</p> +<p>"Thanks, Mac!" Blake murmured. "Sorry if I was a bear! Don't +switch off the light, it won't bother me." He nodded, smiled, drew +his rug closer about his knees, and settled himself to sleep with +the ease of the accustomed traveller.</p> +<p>For close upon an hour complete silence reigned in the heated +carriage. Blake slept silently and peacefully; Billy went +methodically through his papers, dropping them one by one at his +feet as he finished with them; McCutcheon smoked, gazing into space +with the blank expression of the strenuous man who has learned to +utilize his momentary respites; while, stretched along the cushions +of the carriage, his face hidden, his eyes wide open and attentive, +lay the young Russian, his fingers tentatively caressing the +treasure in the pocket of his coat.</p> +<p>But at last the spell was broken. The diplomatic Englishman +dropped his last paper, and McCutcheon stretched himself and looked +once more at his watch.</p> +<p>"Paris in an hour, Billy! Didn't those loafers in the dining-car +promise us coffee somewhat about this time?"</p> +<p>Billy looked up, unruffled of mind and body as in the first +moment of the journey. "I believe they did," he said. "Tell you +what! You jog their memories, while I go and wash. What about +calling Ned?"</p> +<p>At sound of his own name, Blake's eyes opened. His waking was +characteristic of him. It was no slow recovery of the senses; he +was asleep and then awake—fully, easily awake, with a +complete consciousness of his position—a complete, assured +grasp of time and place.</p> +<p>"We're getting on, eh?" he said. "I suppose you're going to tub +before those fat Belgians in the sleeping-car, Billy? If you are, +keep a second place for me, like a good boy. There's nothing more +fiendishly triumphant than taking a bath in the basin while the +rest of the train is rattling the door-handle. Don't forget! Second +place!" Then he turned to the American. "What about the coffee, +Mac? I expect those poor devils of waiters have slept your order +off."</p> +<p>"I was just about to negotiate that coffee transaction." +McCutcheon stood up. "You come too, my son! A little exercise will +give you an appetite." He paused to stretch his long, lean body, +and incidentally his glance fell upon their travelling companion, +and he indicated the recumbent figure with a jerk of the head.</p> +<p>"Say, Ned, ought we to wake our unsociable friend?" Blake cast +one quick glance at the huddled form, then he answered, tersely: +"Let him alone! He's not asleep—and, anyway, he understands +English."</p> +<p>At which McCutcheon made a comprehending grimace, and the two +left the carriage.</p> +<br> +<br> +<p>For many minutes the young Russian did not move; then, when +positive certainty of his solitude had grown into his mind, he +lifted himself on one elbow and looked cautiously about him.</p> +<p>A change had passed over his face in the last hour—an +interesting change. The smooth cheek that the night air had cooled +to paleness was now flushed, and there was a spark of anger in the +bright eyes. Unquestionably this boy had a temper and a spirit of +his own, and both had been aroused. There was a certain arrogance, +a certain contempt in his glance now as it swept the inoffensive +coats and rugs of the departed travellers, a certain antagonism as +he sat up, tossed back the lock of hair that had again fallen +across his forehead, and turned his eyes to the heap of papers +lying upon the carriage floor.</p> +<p>For long he gazed upon these papers, as though they exercised a +magnetic influence, and at last, with a swift impulse, extremely +characteristic, he stretched out his arm and drew forth the lowest +of the heap.</p> +<p>He regained his former position with a quick, lithe movement of +the body, and in an instant he was poring over the paper, the pages +turning with incredible speed under the eagerness of his touch. At +last he reached the page he sought, the page that had offered +ground for discussion to the three voyagers an hour earlier.</p> +<p>His eyes flashed, his fingers tightened, his dark head was bent +lower over the paper. Two pictures confronted him. The first was of +a woman in Russian court dress, who wore her jewels and her +splendor of apparel with an air of pride and careless supremacy +that had in it something magnificent, something semi-barbaric. The +boy looked at this curious and arresting picture, but only for a +moment; by some affinity, some subtle attraction, his eyes turned +instantly to the second portrait—the girl carrying the +gun—and as if in answer to some secret sympathy, some silent +comprehension, the frown upon his brows relaxed and his lips +parted.</p> +<p>It was still the woman of the jewels and the splendid apparel, +but it was a woman infinitely free, infinitely unhampered. The +plain, serviceable clothes fitted the slight figure as though they +had been long worn and loved; the hair was closely coiled, so that +the young face looked out upon the world frank and unadorned as a +boy's. Here, as in the first picture, the eyes looked forth with a +curious, proud directness; but beneath the directness was a glint +of humor, a flash of daring absent in the other face; the mouth +smiled, seeming to anticipate life's secrets, the ungloved hand +held the gun with a touch peculiarly caressing, peculiarly +firm.</p> +<p>The traveller looked, looked again, and then, with a +deliberation odd in so slight a circumstance, folded the paper, +rose, and stepped to the window of the carriage.</p> +<p>The night mist beat in, still raw and cold, but somewhere behind +the darkness was the stirring, the vague presage of the day to +come. He leaned out, fingers close about the paper, lips and +nostrils breathing in the suggestive, vaporous air. For a moment he +stood, steadying himself to the motion of the train, palpitating to +his secret thoughts; then, with a little theatricality all for his +own edification, he opened his fingers and, freeing the paper, +watched it swirl away, hang for a second like a moth against the +lighted window, and vanish into the night.</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_II'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER II</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">'JOURNEYS end in lovers' meeting.' The phrase +conjures a picture. The court-yard of some inn, glowing ripe in the +tints of the setting sun—open doors—an ancient coach +disgorging its passengers! This—or, perhaps, some quay alive +with sound and movement—cries of command in varying +tongues—crowded gangways—rigging massed against the +sky—all the paraphernalia of romance and travel. But the real +journey—the journey of adventure itself—is frequently +another matter: often gray, often loverless, often demanding from +the secret soul of the adventurer spirit and inspiration, lest the +blood turn cold in sick dismay, and the brain cloud under its +weight of nostalgia.</div> +<p>Paris in the dawn of a wet day is a sorry sight; the Gare du +Nord in the hours of early morning is a place of infinite gloom. As +the north express thundered into its recesses, waking strange and +hollow echoes, the long sweep of the platform brought a shudder to +more than one tired mind. A string of sleepy porters—gray +silhouettes against a gray background—was the only sign of +life. Colors there were none, lovers there were none, Parisian joy +of living there was not one vestige.</p> +<p>Paris! The murmur crept through the train, stirring the weariest +to mechanical action. Paris! Heads were thrust through the windows, +wraps and hand-bags passed out to the shadowy, mysterious porters +who received them in a silence born of the godless hour and the +penetrating, chilling dampness of the atmosphere.</p> +<p>In the carriage fifth or sixth from the engine the three +fellow-travellers greeted the arrival in the orthodox way. The tall +American stretched his long limbs and groaned wearily as he got his +belongings together, while the dapper young Englishman thrust his +head out of the window and withdrew it as rapidly.</p> +<p>"Beastly morning!" he announced. "Paris on a wet day is like a +woman with draggled skirts."</p> +<p>"Get rid of our belongings first, Billy, make epigrams after!" +The man called Blake pushed him quietly aside and, stepping to the +window, dropped a leather bag into the hands of a porter.</p> +<p>Of the three, his manner was the most indifferent, his temper +the most unruffled; and of the three, he alone remembered the +fourth occupant of the carriage, for, being relieved of his bag, he +turned with his hand still upon the window, and his eyes sought the +youthful figure drawn with lonely isolation into its corner.</p> +<p>"Do you want a porter?" he asked.</p> +<p>The question was unexpected. The boy started and sat straighter +in his seat. For one moment he seemed to sway between two impulses, +then, with a new determination, he looked straight at his +questioner with his clear eyes.</p> +<p>"No," he said, speaking slowly and with a grave deliberation, "I +do not need a porter. I have no luggage—but this." He rose, +as if to prove the truth of his declaration, and lifted his valise +from the rack.</p> +<p>It was a simple movement, simple as the question and answer that +had preceded it, but it held interest for Blake. He could not have +analyzed the impression, but something in the boy's air touched +him, something in the young figure so plainly clad, so aloof, stood +out with sharp appeal in the grayness and unreality of the dawn. A +feeling that was neither curiosity nor pity, and yet savored of +both, urged him to further speech. As his two companions, anxious +to be free of the train, passed out into the corridor, he glanced +once more at the slight figure, at the high Russian boots, the long +overcoat, the fur cap drawn down over the dark hair.</p> +<p>"Look here! you aren't alone in Paris?" he asked in the easy, +impersonal way that spoke his nationality. "You have +people—friends to meet you?"</p> +<p>For an instant the look that had possessed the boy's face during +the journey—the look of suspicion akin to fear—leaped +up, but on the moment it was conquered. The well-poised head was +thrown back, and again the eyes met Blake's in a deliberate +gaze.</p> +<p>"Why do you ask, monsieur?"</p> +<p>The words were clipped, the tone proud and a little cold.</p> +<p>Another man might have hesitated to reply truthfully, but Blake +was an Irishman and used to self-expression.</p> +<p>"I ask," he said, simply, "because you are so young."</p> +<p>A new expression—a new daring—swept the boy's mobile +face. A spirit of raillery gleamed in his eyes, and he smiled for +the first time.</p> +<p>"How old, monsieur?"</p> +<p>The question, the smile touched Blake anew. He laughed +involuntarily with a sudden sense of friendliness.</p> +<p>"Sixteen?—seventeen?"</p> +<p>The boy, still smiling, shook his head.</p> +<p>"Guess again, monsieur."</p> +<p>Blake's interest flashed out. Here, in the gray station, in this +damp hour of dawn, he had touched something magnetic—some +force that drew and held him. A quality intangible and +indescribable seemed to emanate from this unknown boy, some strange +radiance of vitality that flooded his surroundings as with +sunshine.</p> +<p>"Eighteen, then!" He laughed once more, with a curious sense of +pleasure.</p> +<p>But from the corridor outside a slow voice was borne back on the +damp, close air, forbidding further parley.</p> +<p>"Blake! I say, Blake! For the Lord's sake, get a move on!"</p> +<p>The spell was broken, the moment of companionship passed. Blake +drifted toward the carriage door, the boy following.</p> +<p>Outside in the corridor they were sucked into the stream of +departing passengers—that odd medley of men and women, +unadorned, jaded, careless, that a night train disgorges. Slowly, +step by step, the procession made its way, each unit that composed +it glancing involuntarily into the empty carriages that he +passed—the carriages that, in their dimmed light, their +airlessness, their <i>débris</i> of papers, seemed to be a +reflection of his own exhausted condition; then a gust of chilly +air told of the outer world, and one by one the travellers slid +through the narrow doorway, each instinctively pausing to brace +himself against the biting cold before stepping down upon the +platform.</p> +<p>At last it was Blake's turn. He, too, paused; then he, too, took +the final plunge, shivered, glanced at where McCutcheon and the +Englishman were talking to their porters, then turned to watch the +Russian boy swing himself lithely down from the high step of the +train.</p> +<p>All about him was the consciousness of the awakening crowd, +conveyed by the jostling of elbows, the deepening hum of +voices.</p> +<p>"Look here!" he said again, in response to his original impulse. +"You have somebody to meet you?"</p> +<p>The boy glanced up, a secret emotion burning in his eyes. "No, +monsieur."</p> +<p>"You are quite alone?"</p> +<p>"Yes, monsieur."</p> +<p>"And why are you here—to play or to work?"</p> +<p>The question was unwarrantable, but an Irishman can dispense +with warranty in a manner unknown to other men. It had ever been +Blake's way to ask what he desired to know.</p> +<p>This time no offence showed itself in the boy's face.</p> +<p>"In part to work, in part to play, monsieur," he answered, +gravely; "in part to learn life."</p> +<p>The reply was strange to Blake's ears—strange in its grave +sincerity, stranger still in its quiet fearlessness.</p> +<p>"But you are such a child!" he cried, impulsively. +"You—"</p> +<p>Imperceptibly the slight figure stiffened, the proud look +flashed again into the eyes.</p> +<p>"Many thanks, monsieur, but I am older than you think—and +very independent. I have the honor monsieur, to wish you +good-bye."</p> +<p>The tone was absolutely courteous, but it was final. He bowed +with easy foreign grace, raised his fur cap, and, turning, swung +down the platform and out of sight.</p> +<p>Blake stood watching him—watching until the high head, the +straight shoulders, the lithe, swinging body were but a memory; +then he turned with a start, as a hand was laid upon his shoulder, +and the pleasant, prosaic voice of the young Englishman assailed +his ears.</p> +<p>"My dear chap, what in the world are you doing? Not day-dreaming +with the mercury at thirty?"</p> +<p>"Foolish—but I was!" Blake answered, calmly. "I was +watching that young Russian stalk away into the unknown, and I was +wondering—"</p> +<p>"What?"</p> +<p>He smiled a little cynically. "I was wondering, Billy, what type +of individual and what particular process fate will choose to let +him break himself upon."</p> +<br> +<br> +<p>The most splendid moment of an adventure is not always the +moment of fulfilment, not even the moment of conception, but the +moment of first accomplishment, when the adventurer deliberately +sets his face toward the new road, knowing that his boats are +burned.</p> +<p>Nothing could have been less inspiring than the dreary Gare du +Nord, nothing less inviting than the glimpse of Paris to be caught +through its open doorways; but had the whole world laughed him a +welcome, the young Russian's step could not have been more elastic, +his courage higher, his heart more ready to pulse to the quick +march of his thoughts, as he strode down the gray platform and out +into the open.</p> +<p>In the open he paused to study his surroundings. As yet the full +tale of passengers had not emerged, and only an occasional +wayfarer, devoid of baggage as himself, had fared forth into the +gloom. Outside, the artificial light of the station ceased to do +battle with nature, and only an occasional street lamp gave +challenge to the gloomy dawn. The damp mist that all night had +enshrouded Paris still clung about the streets like ragged +grave-clothes, and at the edge of the pavement half a dozen +<i>fiacres</i> were ranged in a melancholy line, the wretched +horses dozing as they stood, the drivers huddled into their fur +capes and numbed by the clinging cold. Everywhere was darkness and +chill and the listless misery of a winter dawn, when vitality is at +its lowest ebb and the passions of man are sunk in lethargy.</p> +<p>Only a creature infinitely young could have held firm in face of +such dejection, only eyes as alert and wakeful as those of this +wayfaring boy could possibly have looked undaunted at the shabby +streets with their flaunting travesty of joy exhibited in the +dripping awnings of the deserted <i>cafés</i>, that offered +<i>Bière, Billard</i>, and yet again <i>Bière</i> to +an impassive world.</p> +<p>But the eyes were wakeful, the soul of the adventurer was +infinitely young. He looked at it all with a certain steadfastness +that seemed to say, "Yes, I see you! You are hideous, slatternly, +unfriendly; but through all the disguise I recognize you. Through +the mask I trace the features—subtle, alluring, fascinating. +You are Paris! Paris!"</p> +<p>The idea quickened action as a draught of wine might quicken +thought; his hand involuntarily tightened upon his valise, his body +braced itself afresh, and, as if resigning himself finally to +chance, that deity loved of all true adventurers, he stepped from +the pavement into the greasy roadway.</p> +<p>Seeing him move, a loafer, crouching in the shadow of the +station, slunk reluctantly into the open and offered to procure him +a <i>fiacre</i>; but the boy's shake of the head was determined, +and, crossing the road, he turned to the left, gazing up with eager +interest at the many hotels that rub shoulders in that +uninteresting region.</p> +<p>One after the other he reviewed and rejected them, moving onward +with the excitement that is born of absolute uncertainty. Onward he +went, without pause, until the pavement was intersected by a +side-street, and peering up through the misty light he read the +legend, "rue de Dunkerque."</p> +<p>Rue de Dunkerque! It conveyed nothing to his mind. But was he +not seeking the unknown? Again his head went up, again his +shoulders stiffened, and, smiling to himself at some secret +thought, he swung round the corner and plunged into the +unexplored.</p> +<p>Half way down the rue de Dunkerque stands the Hôtel +Railleux. It is a tall and narrow house, somewhat dirty and +entirely undistinguished; there is nothing to recommend it save +perhaps an air of privacy, a certain insignificance that wedges it +between the surrounding buildings in a manner tempting to one +anxious to avoid his fellows.</p> +<p>This quality it was that caught the boy's attention. He paused +and studied the Hôtel Railleux with an attention that he had +denied to the large and common hostelries that front the station. +He looked at it long and meditatively, then very slowly and +thoughtfully he walked to the end of the street. At the end of the +street he turned, his mind made up, and, hurrying back, went +straight into the hall of the hotel as though thirsting to pledge +himself irrevocably to his decision.</p> +<p>It is impossible for the sensible individual to see romance in +this entry into a third-rate Parisian hotel—to see daring or +to see danger—but the boy's heart was beating fast as the +glass door swung behind him, and his tongue was dry as he stepped +into the little office on the right of the poor hall.</p> +<p>Here in the office the story of the streets was repeated. A +dingy gas-jet shed a faint light, as though reluctantly awake; +behind a small partition, half counter, half desk, a wan and +sleepy—looking man was cowering over a stove. As the boy +entered he looked up uncertainly, then he rose and smiled, for your +Parisian is exhausted indeed when he fails to conjure up a +smile.</p> +<p>"Good-day, monsieur!"</p> +<p>The words were a travesty in view of the miserable dawn, but the +boy took heart. There was greeting in the tone. He moistened his +lips, which felt dry as his tongue in his momentary nervousness, +then he stepped closer to the counter.</p> +<p>"Good-day, monsieur! I require a bedroom."</p> +<p>"A bedroom? But certainly, monsieur!" The shrewd though tired +eyes of the man passed over his visitor's clothes and the valise in +his hand. "We can give you a most excellent room at"—he +raised his eyebrows in tactful hesitation—"at five +francs?"</p> +<p>The boy's eyes opened in genuine, instant surprise. "For so +little?" he exclaimed. Then, covered with confusion, he reddened +furiously and stammered, "For—for so much, I mean?"</p> +<p>The man in the office was all smooth, politeness, anxious to +cover a foreigner's slip of speech. 'But certainly, no! If five +francs was more than monsieur cared to pay, then for three francs +there was a most charming, a most agreeable room on the fifth +floor. True, it did not look upon the street, but then perhaps +monsieur preferred quiet. If monsieur would give himself the +trouble of mounting—'</p> +<p>Monsieur, still confused by his own mistake, and nervously +anxious to insist upon his position, repeated again that five +francs was out of the question, and that, without giving himself +the trouble of mounting, he would then and there decide upon the +agreeable and quiet room at three francs.</p> +<p>'But certainly! It was understood!' The guardian of the office, +now fully awake and aroused to interest in this princely +transaction, disappeared from behind the counter into the back +regions of the hotel, and could be heard calling "Jean! Jean!" in a +high, insistent tone.</p> +<p>After some moments of silence he returned, followed by a large +and amiable individual in a dirty blue blouse, who had apparently +but lately arisen from sleep.</p> +<p>'Now if monsieur would intrust his baggage to the +valet—'</p> +<p>The guardian of the office took a key from a nail in the wall. +Jean stepped forward, pleased and self-conscious, and took the +valise from the boy's hand. Then all three smiled and bowed.</p> +<p>It was one of those foolish little comedies—utterly +unnecessary, curiously pleasant—that occur twenty times a day +in Parisian life. Involuntarily the adventurer's heart warmed to +the pallid clerk and to the dirty hotel porter. He had arrived here +without luggage, shabby, unrecommended, yet no princely compatriot +of his own could have been made more sensible of welcome. He +stepped out of the office and followed his guide, conscious that, +if only for an instant, Paris had lifted her mask and +smiled—the radiant, anticipated smile.</p> +<p>There is no such unnecessary luxury as a lift in the Hôtel +Railleux. At the back of the hall the spiral staircase begins its +steep ascent, mounting to unimagined heights.</p> +<p>Jean, breathing audibly, led the way, pausing at every landing +to assure monsieur that the ascent was nothing—a mere +nothing, and that before another thought could pass through +monsieur's mind the fifth floor would be reached. The boy followed, +climbing and ever climbing, until the meagre hand-rail appeared to +lengthen into dream-like coils, and the threadbare, drab-hued +carpet, with its vivid red border, to assume the proportions of +some confusing scroll.</p> +<p>But at length the end was reached, and Jean, beaming and +triumphant, announced their goal.</p> +<p>'This way! If monsieur would have the goodness to take two steps +in this direction!' He dived into a long, dark corridor, +illuminated by a single flickering gas-jet, twin brother to that +which lighted the office below; and, still eager, still breathing +loudly, he ushered the guest toward what in his humble soul he +believed to be the luxurious, the impressive bedroom supplied by +the Hôtel Railleux at three francs a night.</p> +<p>The boy looked about him as he passed down the dim corridor. +Apparently he and Jean alone were awake in this gloomy maze of +closed doors and sleeping passages. One sign of humanity—and +one alone—came to his senses with a suggestion of sordid +drama. On the floor, at the closed door of one of the rooms, stood +a battered black tray on which reposed an empty champagne bottle +and two soiled glasses.</p> +<p>Life! His quick imagination conjured a picture—conjured +and shrank from it. He turned away with a sense of sharp disgust +and almost ran down the corridor to where Jean was fitting a key +into the door of his prospective bedroom.</p> +<p>"The room, monsieur!" Jean's voice was full of pride. He had +lived for ten years in the Hôtel Railleux, working as six men +and six women together would not have worked in the fashionable +quarter, and he had never been shaken in his belief that Paris held +no more inviting hostelry.</p> +<p>The boy obediently stepped forward into the tiny apartment, in +which a big wooden bedstead loomed out of all proportion. His +movements were hasty, as though he desired to escape from some +impression; his voice, when he spoke, was vague.</p> +<p>"Very nice! Very nice!" he said. "And—and what is the +view?"</p> +<p>"The view? Oh, but monsieur will like the view!" Jean stepped to +the window, drew back the heavy cretonne curtains, and threw open +the long window, admitting a breath of chilling cold. "The +court-yard! See, monsieur! The court-yard!"</p> +<p>The boy came forward into the biting air and gazed down into the +well-like depths of gloom, at the bottom of which could be +discerned a small flagged court, ornamented by a couple of dwarfed +and frost-bitten trees in painted tubs.</p> +<p>Jean, watchful of the visitor's face, broke forth anew with +inexhaustible tact.</p> +<p>'It was a fine view—monsieur would admit that! But, +naturally, it was not the street! Now No. 107, across the +corridor—at five francs—?'</p> +<p>Monsieur was aroused. "No! No! certainly not. The view was of no +consequence. The bed looked all right."</p> +<p>'The bed!' Here Jean spoke with deep feeling. 'There was no +better bed in Paris. Had he not himself put clean sheets on it that +day?' He turned from the window, and with the hand of an expert +displayed the beauties of the sparse blankets, the cotton sheets, +and the mountainous double mattress.</p> +<p>'But monsieur was anxious to retire? Doubtless monsieur would +sleep until <i>déjeuner</i>? A most excellent +<i>déjeuner</i> was served in the +<i>salle-à-manger</i> on the second floor.'</p> +<p>The words flowed forth in a stream—agreeable, monotonous, +reminiscent of the far-away province that had long ago bred this +good creature. Suddenly the exhaustion of the long journey, the +sleep so long denied rose about the traveller like a misty vapor. +He longed for solitude; he pined for rest.</p> +<p>"I am satisfied with everything," he said, abruptly. "Leave me. +I have not been in bed for two nights."</p> +<p>A flood of sympathy overspread Jean's face: he threw up his +hands. "Poor boy! Poor boy! What a terrible thing!" With a touch as +light as a woman's his work-worn fingers smoothed the pillow +invitingly, and, tiptoeing to the door, he disappeared in tactful +and silent comprehension of the situation.</p> +<p>Vaguely the boy was conscious of his departure. A great +lassitude was falling upon him, making him value the isolation of +his three-franc room with a deep gratitude, turning his gaze toward +the unpromising bed with an indescribable longing. Mechanically, as +the door closed, he threw off his heavy overcoat, kicked off his +high boots, discarded his coat and trousers, and, without waiting +to search in his bag for another garment, stepped into bed and +curled himself up in the flannel shirt he had worn all day.</p> +<p>The bed was uncomfortable with that extraordinary discomfort of +the old-fashioned French bed, that feels as though it were padded +with cotton wool of indescribable heaviness. The sheets were +coarse, the multitudinous clothes were weighty without being warm, +but no prince on his bed of roses ever rested with more luxury of +repose than did this young adventurer as, drawing the blankets to +his chin, he stretched his limbs with the slow, delicious enjoyment +born of long travel.</p> +<p>Jean had drawn the cretonne curtains, but through their chinks +streaks of bluish, shadowy light presaged the coming day. From his +lair the boy looked out at these ghostly fingers of the morning, +then his eyes travelled round the dark room until at last they +rested upon his clothes lying, as he had thrown them, on the floor. +He looked at them—the boots, the coat and trousers, the heavy +overcoat—and suddenly some imperative thought banished sleep +from his eyes. He sat up in bed; he shivered as the cold air nipped +his shoulder; then, unhesitatingly, he slipped from between the +sheets and slid out upon the floor.</p> +<p>The room was small; the clothes lay within an arm's length. He +shivered again, stooped, and, picking up the overcoat, dived his +hand into the deep pocket, and drew forth the packet that he had +guarded so tenaciously in the train.</p> +<p>For a moment he stood looking at it in the blue light of the +dawn—a thick brown packet, seven or eight inches long, tied +with string and sealed. Once or twice he looked at it, seemingly +lost in reflection; once or twice he turned it about in his hand as +if to make certain it was intact; then, with a deep sigh indicative +of satisfaction, he stepped back into bed, slipped the packet under +his pillow and, with his fingers faithfully enlaced in the string, +fell asleep.</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_III'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER III</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">IT was eleven o'clock when the boy woke. All the +excitement of the past days had culminated in the great exhaustion +of the night before.</div> +<p>He had slept as a child might sleep—dreamlessly, happily, +unthinkingly. In that silent hour Nature had drawn him into her +wide embrace, lulling him with a mother's gentleness; and now, in +the moment of waking, it seemed that again the same beneficent +agency was dispensing love and favor, for he opened his eyes upon a +changed world. A magician's wand had been waved over the city +during his hours of sleep; the mist and oppression of the night had +disappeared with the darkness. Paris was under the dominion of the +frost.</p> +<p>Instinctively, even before his eyelids lifted, the northern soul +within him apprised him of this change. He inhaled the crisp +coldness of the air with a vague familiarity; he opened his eyes +slowly and stared about the unknown room in an instant of +hesitating doubt; then, with a great leap of the spirit, he +recognized his position. Last night—the days and nights that +had preceded it—flooded his consciousness, and in a moment he +was out of bed and pulling back the drab-hued curtains that hid the +window.</p> +<p>Having freed the daylight, he leaned out, peering greedily down +into the well-like court, where even the stunted trees in their +painted tubs were coated white with rime; then, with another +impulse, as quickly conceived, as quickly executed, he drew back +into the room, fired with the desire to be out and about in this +newly created world.</p> +<p>By day, the details of the room stood out with a prominence that +had been denied them in the dim candle-light of the night before, +and he realized now, what had escaped him then, that there was +neither dressing-table, wardrobe, nor chest of drawers, that the +entire space of the small apartment was filled by the clumsy bed, a +folding wash-stand, and two ponderous arm-chairs covered in shabby +red velvet. These, with a dingy gold-framed mirror hanging above +the tiny corner fireplace, and a gilt clock under a glass shade, +formed the comforts purchasable for three francs.</p> +<p>He studied it all solemnly and attentively, not omitting the +gray wall-paper of melancholy design, and content that he had +acquitted himself dutifully toward his surroundings, he unpacked +his valise, and proceeded to dress for the day's happenings.</p> +<p>The contents of the valise were not imposing—a change of +linen, a soft felt hat, a pair of shoes, and a well-worn blue serge +suit. The boy looked at each article as he drew it forth with a +quaint attentiveness quite disproportionate to either its +appearance or its value. But the process seemed to please him, and +he lingered over it, ceasing almost reluctantly to appraise his +belongings, and beginning to dress.</p> +<p>This morning he discarded the high Russian boots and the fur cap +of yesterday, and arrayed himself instead, and with much precision, +in the serge suit. Worn as this suit was, it evidently retained a +pristine value in its owner's eyes, for no sooner had he fastened +the last button of the coat than he looked instinctively for the +mirror in which to study the effect.</p> +<p>The mirror unfortunately was high and, crane his neck as he +might, he could see nothing beyond the waves of his short, dark +hair and his eager, questioning eyes. But the effect must be +observed, and, with an anxiety in seeming contrast to his nature, +he pulled one of the massive velvet chairs to the fireplace and, +mounting upon it, surveyed himself at every angle with deep +intentness. At last, satisfied, he jumped to the ground, and taking +the brown-paper packet from the hiding-place where it had reposed +all night, bestowed it again in the pocket of his overcoat and, +picking up the felt hat, left the room.</p> +<p>The corridor, despite the advent of the day, was still dark, +save where an occasional door stood ajar and a shaft of sun from +the outer world shot across the drab carpet; but Jean had been over +the floor with his broom while the hotel slept, and the battered +tray with its suggestion of sordid festivity had been removed. Even +here the electric air of the morning had made entry, and, yielding +to its seduction, the boy gave rein to his eagerness as he hurried +forward to the head of the stairs and laid his hand upon the meagre +banister.</p> +<p>From the hall below the white light of the day ascended with +subtle invitation, while outside the world hummed with +possibilities. He began the descent, light as a Mercury, his feet +scarcely touching the steps that last night had offered so toilsome +a progress, and on the third floor he encountered Jean, bearing +another tray laden with plates and covered dishes.</p> +<p>At sight of the young face, the good creature's smile broke +forth irresistibly.</p> +<p>'Ah, but monsieur had slept!' The little eyes ran over the face +and figure of the guest with visible pleasure.</p> +<p>The boy laughed—the full, light-hearted laugh that belongs +to the beginning of things.</p> +<p>"Yes, I have slept; and now, you may believe, I have an +appetite!"</p> +<p>Jean echoed the laugh with a spontaneity that held no +disrespect. He lingered, drawn, as the Irishman in the train had +been drawn, by something original, something vital, in the youthful +personality.</p> +<p>'His faith! But monsieur had the spirit as well as the +appetite!'</p> +<p>"Ah, the spirit!" For a fleeting second the boy's eyes looked +away beyond Jean—untidy, attentive, +comprehending—beyond the neutral-tinted walls and the shabby +carpet of the Hôtel Railleux, seeing in vision the things +that were to come. Then, with his swift impulsiveness, he flung his +dream from him. What mattered the future? What mattered the past? +He was here in the present—in the moment; and the moment, +great or small, demanded living.</p> +<p>"Never mind the spirit, Jean! Let us consider the flesh! Where +is the <i>salle-à-manger</i>?"</p> +<p>'The <i>salle-à-manger</i> was on the second floor.'</p> +<p>'The second floor? But of course! Had not Jean mentioned that +fact last night?' With a nod and a smile, he was away down the +intervening steps and at the door of the eating-room before Jean +could balance his tray for his renewed ascent.</p> +<p>The room that the boy entered was in keeping with the rest of +the house—old-fashioned and in ill-repair. The floor was +devoid of covering, the ceiling low, the only furniture a dozen +small tables meagrely set out for <i>déjeuner</i>. On the +moment of his entry eleven of these tables were unoccupied, but at +the twelfth an eager young waiter attended upon a stout provincial +Frenchwoman who was partaking heartily of a pungently smelling +stew.</p> +<p>On the opening of the door the waiter glanced round in strained +anticipation, and the lady of the stew looked up and bowed a +greeting to the new-comer.</p> +<p>It struck the boy as curious—this welcome from a total +stranger, but it woke anew the pleasant warmth, the agreeable sense +of friendliness. With the tingling sensation of doing a daring +deed, he glanced round the empty room, scanned the two long windows +on which the cold, bright sun played laughingly, and through which +the rattle and hum of the rue de Dunkerque penetrated like an +exhilarating accompaniment, then, he walked straight to the table +of the lady, smiled and, in his own turn, bowed.</p> +<p>'Would madame permit him to sit at her table? It was sad to be +alone upon so fine a morning.'</p> +<p>A woman of any other nationality might have looked at him +askance; but madame was French. She was fifty years of age, she was +fat, she was ugly—but she was French. The sense of a pleasant +encounter—the appreciation of romance was in her blood. She +smiled at the debonair boy with as agreeable a self-consciousness +as though she had been a young girl.</p> +<p>'But certainly, if monsieur desired. The pleasure was for +her.'</p> +<p>Again an interchange of bows and smiles, sympathetically +repeated by the interested young waiter. Then the boy, laying his +hat and coat aside, seated himself at the table and entered upon +the business of the hour, while madame became tactfully absorbed in +her odoriferous stew.</p> +<p>'What did monsieur desire?' The waiter stood anxiously +attentive, his head inclining gravely to one side, his dirty napkin +swinging from his left hand.</p> +<p>The boy glanced up.</p> +<p>'What could the Hôtel Railleux offer?'</p> +<p>The waiter met his eye steadfastly. 'Anything that monsieur +cared to order.'</p> +<p>The boy encountered the steadfast look, and a little gleam of +humor shot into his eyes.</p> +<p>'Well, then, to begin with, should they say <i>Sole +Waleska</i>?'</p> +<p>The waiter's glance wavered, he threw the weight of his body +from one foot to the other. Involuntarily madame looked up.</p> +<p>The boy buried himself behind an expression of profound +seriousness.</p> +<p>"Yes! <i>Sole Waleska</i>! Or, perhaps, <i>Coulibiac à la +Russe!"</i></p> +<p>The waiter's mouth opened in a desperate resolve to meet the +worst. Madame's eyes discreetly sought her plate.</p> +<p>The boy threw back his head and laughed aloud at his own small +jest. "Bring me two eggs <i>en cocotte</i>," he substituted, and +laughed again in sheer pleasure at the waiter's sudden smile, his +sudden restoration to dignity, as he hurried away to put a seal +upon an order that permitted the hotel to retain its +self-respect.</p> +<p>Again madame looked up. 'Monsieur was fond of his little +pleasantry! This waiter was a good boy, but slow. They did not keep +a sufficiency of servants at the Hôtel Railleux. But +doubtless monsieur had noticed that?'</p> +<p>The boy met her inquisitive glance with disarming frankness, but +his words when he answered gave little information.</p> +<p>'No. He had not as yet had time to notice anything.'</p> +<p>'But of course! Monsieur was a new arrival? He had +come—when was it—?' Madame appeared to search her +memory.</p> +<p>'Yesterday.'</p> +<p>'But of course. Yesterday! And what a day it had been! What +weather for a long journey! It had been a long journey, had it +not?'</p> +<p>The boy looked vague. 'Oh, it had been of a sufficient +length!'</p> +<p>Madame toyed with the remnants of her stew. 'It had, perhaps, +been a journey from England? Monsieur was not French, although he +had so charming a fluency in the language?' Her eyes, her whole +provincial, inquisitive face begged for information, but the boy +was firm.</p> +<p>'We are each of the country God has given us!' he informed her. +Then he added with convincing certainty that madame was without +doubt <i>Parisienne</i>.</p> +<p>Madame bridled at the soothing little falsehood.</p> +<p>'Alas! nothing so interesting. She was of the provinces.'</p> +<p>'Provincial! Impossible!'</p> +<p>At once the ice was broken; at once they were on the footing of +friends, and madame's soul poured forth its secret vanities.</p> +<p>'Monsieur was too kind. No, she was provincial—though, of +a truth, Paris was so well known to her that she might almost claim +to be <i>Parisienne</i>.'</p> +<p>The boy's interest was undiminished. 'Might he venture to ask if +it was pleasure alone that had brought madame to the +capital—or had business—?' He left the sentence +discreetly unfinished.</p> +<p>Madame pushed her empty plate away and took a toothpick from the +table.</p> +<p>'How observant was monsieur!' She eyed the bright young face +with growing approval. 'Yes, business, alas, was the pivot of her +visit! This terrible business—exacting so much, giving so +little in return!' She heaved a weighty sigh, then her fat face +melted into smiles. 'But after all, what would you?' She shrugged +her ample shoulders, and the toothpick came into full play.</p> +<p>'What would you, indeed?' The boy began to feel a little +disconcerted under her glance of slow approval, and a swift sense +of relief passed through him as the door opened and the waiter +reappeared, carrying the two eggs.</p> +<p>'What would you, indeed? One must live!' Madame, disregarding +the waiter, continued to study the boyish face—the curious +dark-gray eyes, in which the morning sun was discovering little +flecks of gold. 'And every year conditions were becoming harder, as +monsieur doubtless knew.'</p> +<p>Monsieur nodded his head sagely, and began to eat his eggs with +keen zest.</p> +<p>Madame looked slowly round at the waiter and ordered coffee, +then her glance returned to the boy.</p> +<p>'How good, how refreshing it was to see him eat! How easy to +comprehend that he was young!' She sighed again, this time more +softly. 'Youth was a marvellous thing—and Paris was the city +of the young! Was monsieur making a long stay at the Hôtel +Railleux?'</p> +<p>The waiter again appeared and placed the coffee upon the table. +Monsieur, suddenly and unaccountably uneasy, finished his eggs +hastily and pushed his plate aside.</p> +<p>'Did monsieur desire coffee?' Madame leaned forward. 'If so, it +would be but the matter of a moment to procure a second cup; and, +as her coffee-pot was quite full—' She raised the lid +coquettishly, and again her eyes lingered upon the short dark hair +and the straight brows above the gray eyes.</p> +<p>The waiter with ready tact departed in search of the second cup; +madame replaced the lid of the coffee-pot.</p> +<p>'Now that they were alone, would it be an unpardonable liberty +to ask how old monsieur really was?'</p> +<p>Monsieur blushed.</p> +<p>'How old would madame suppose?'</p> +<p>Madame laughed. 'Oh, it was difficult to say! One might imagine +from those bright eyes that monsieur had nineteen years; but, +again, it was impossible to suppose that a razor had ever touched +that soft cheek.' There was another little laugh, lower this time +and more subtle in tone; and madame, with a movement wonderfully +swift considering her years and her proportions, leaned across the +table and touched the boy's face.</p> +<p>The effect was instant. A tide of color rushed into his cheeks, +he rose with an alacrity that was comic.</p> +<p>'He—he was much older than madame supposed!'</p> +<p>Madame laughed delightedly. 'How charming! How ingenuous! He +positively must sit down again. It was assured that they would +become friends! Where was that waiter? Where was that second +coffee-cup?'</p> +<p>But monsieur remained standing.</p> +<p>Madame's eyes, now alive with interest, literally danced to her +thoughts.</p> +<p>'Come! Come! They must not allow the coffee to become cold!'</p> +<p>But monsieur picked up his hat and coat.</p> +<p>'What! He was not going? Oh, it was impossible! He could not be +so unkind!' Her face expressed dismay.</p> +<p>But her only answer was a stiff little bow, and a second later +the door had closed and the boy was running down the stairs of the +hotel as though some enemy were in hot pursuit.</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_IV'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">THE mind of the boy was very full as he passed +out of the hotel, so full that he scarcely noticed the whip of cold +air that stung his face or the white mantle that lay upon the +streets, wrapping in a silver sheath all that was sordid, all that +was dirty and unpicturesque in that corner of Paris. The human note +had been touched in that moment in the +<i>salle-à-manger,</i> and his ears still tingled to its +sound. Alarm, disgust, and a strange exultant satisfaction warred +within him in a manner to be comprehended by his own soul +alone.</div> +<p>As he stepped out into the rue de Dunkerque he scarcely +questioned in what direction his feet should carry him. North, +south, east, or west were equal on that first day. Everywhere was +promise—everywhere a call. Nonchalantly and without intention +he turned to the left and found himself once more in face of the +Gare du Nord.</p> +<p>It is a good thing to rejoice in spite of the world; it is an +infinitely better thing to rejoice in company with it. With +solitude and freedom, the alarm, the disgust receded, and as he +went forward the exultation grew, until once again his mercurial +spirits lifted him as upon wings.</p> +<p>The majority of passers-by at this morning hour were +workers—work-girls out upon their errands, business men going +to or from the <i>cafés</i>; but here and there was to be +seen an artist, consciously indifferent to appearances; here and +there an artisan, unconsciously picturesque in his coarse +working-clothes; here and there a well-dressed woman, sunning +herself in the cold, bright air like a bird of gay plumage. It was +the world in miniature, and it stirred and piqued his interest. A +wish to stop one of these people, and to pour forth his longings, +his hopes, his dreams, surged within him in a glow of fellowship +and, smiling to himself at the pleasant wildness of the thought, he +made his way through the wider spaces of the Place Lafayette and +the Square Montholon into the long, busy rue Lafayette.</p> +<p>Here, in the rue Lafayette, the gloomy aspects of the district +he had made his own dropped behind him, and a wealth of bustle and +gayety greeted and fascinated him. Here the sun seemed fuller, the +traffic was more dense, and the shops offered visions to please +every sense. Wine shops were here, curio shops, shops all golden +and tempting with cheeses and butter, and hat shops that foretold +the spring in a glitter of blues and greens. He passed on, jostling +the crowd good-humoredly, being jostled in the same spirit, hugging +his freedom with a silent joy.</p> +<p>Down the rue Halévy he went and on into the Place de +l'Opéra; but here he slackened his pace, and something of +his <i>insouciance</i> dropped from him. The wide space filled with +its cosmopolitan crowd, the opera-house itself, so aloof in its +dark splendor, spoke to him of another Paris—the Paris that +might be Vienna, Petersburg, London, for all it has to say of +individual life. His mood changed; he paused and looked back over +his shoulder in the direction from whence he had come. But the +hesitation was fleeting; a quick courage followed on the doubt. The +adventurer must take life in every aspect—must face all +questions, all moments! He turned up the collar of his coat, as +though preparing to face a chillier region, and went forward boldly +as before.</p> +<p>One or two narrow streets brought him out upon the Place de +Rivoli, where Joan of Arc sat astride her golden horse, and where +great heaps of flowers were stacked at the street +corners—mimosa, lilac, violets. He halted irresistibly to +glance at these flowers breathing of the south, and to glance at +the shining statue. Then he crossed the rue de Rivoli and, passing +through the garden of the Tuileries, emerged upon the Place de la +Concorde.</p> +<p>On the Place de la Concorde the cool, clean hand of the morning +had drawn its most striking picture; here, in the great, +unsheltered spaces, the frost had fallen heavily, softening and +beautifying to an inconceivable degree. The suggestion of modernity +that ordinarily hangs over the place was veiled, and the subtle +hints of history stole forth, binding the imagination. It needed +but a touch to materialize the dream as the boy crossed the white +roadway, shadowed by the white statuary, and with an odd +appropriateness the touch was given.</p> +<p>One moment his mind was a sea of shifting visions, the next it +was caught and held by an inevitably thrilling sound—the +sound of feet tramping to a martial tune. The touch had been given: +the vague visions of tradition and history crystallized into a +picture, and his heart leaped to the pulsing, steady tramp, to the +clash of fife and drum ringing out upon the fine cold air.</p> +<p>All humanity is drawn by the sight of soldiers. There is a +primitive exhilaration in the idea of marching men that will last +while the nations live. Stung by the same impulse that affected +every man and woman in the Place de la Concorde, the boy +paused—his head up, his pulses quickened, his eyes and ears +strained toward the sound.</p> +<p>It was a regiment of infantry marching down the Cours la Reine +and defiling out upon the Place de la Concorde toward the rue de +Rivoli. By a common impulse he paused, and by an equally common +desire to be close to the object of interest, he ran forward to +where a little crowd had gathered in the soldiers' route.</p> +<p>The French soldier is not individually interesting, and this +body of men looked insignificant enough upon close inspection. Yet +it was a regiment; it stirred the fancy; and the boy gazed with +keen interest at the small figures in the ill-fitting uniforms and +at the faces, many as young as his own, that denied past him in +confusing numbers. On and on the regiment wound, a coiling line of +dull red and bluish-gray against the frosty background, the feet +tramping steadily, the fifes and drums beating out with an +incessant clamor.</p> +<p>Then, without warning, a new interest touched the knot of +watchers, a thrill passed from one member of the crowd to another, +and hats were raised. The colors were being borne by: Frenchmen +were saluting their flag.</p> +<p>The knowledge sprang to the boy's mind with the swiftness and +poignancy of an inspiration. This body of men might be +insignificant, but it represented the army of France—a thing +of infinite tradition, of infinite romance. The blood mounted to +his face, his heart beat faster, and with a strange, half-shy sense +of participating in some fine moment, his hand went up to his +hat.</p> +<p>Unconsciously he made a picture as he stood there, his dark hair +stirred by the light, early air, his young face beautiful in its +sudden enthusiasm; and to one pair of eyes in the little crowd it +seemed better worth watching than the passing soldiers.</p> +<p>The owner of these eyes had been observant of him from the +moment that he had run forward, drawn by the rattle of the drums; +and now, as if in acceptance of an anticipated opportunity, he +forced a way through the knot of people and, pausing behind the +boy, addressed him in an easy, familiar voice, as one friend might +address another.</p> +<p>"Isn't it odd," he said, "to look at those insignificant +creatures, and to think that the soldiers of France have kissed the +women and thrashed the men the world over?"</p> +<p>Had a gun been discharged close to his car the boy could not +have started more violently. Fear leaped into his eyes, he wheeled +round; then a sharp, nervous laugh of relief escaped him.</p> +<p>"How you frightened me!" he exclaimed. "Oh, how you frightened +me!" Then he laughed again.</p> +<p>His travelling companion of the night before smiled down on him +from his superior height, and the boy noted for the first time that +this smile had a peculiarly attractive way of communicating itself +from the clean-shaven lips to the grayish-green eyes of the +stranger, banishing the slightly satirical look that marked his +face in repose.</p> +<p>"Well?" The Irishman was still studying him.</p> +<p>"Well? We're all on the knees of the gods, you see! 'Twas +written that we were to meet; you can't avoid me."</p> +<p>The flag had been carried past; the boy replaced his hat, glad +of a moment in which to collect his thoughts. What must he do? The +question beat in his brain. Wisdom whispered avoidance of this +stranger. To-day was the first day; was it wise to bring into it +anything from yesterday? No, it was not wise—reason upheld +wisdom. He pulled his hat into place, his lips came together in an +obstinate line, and he raised his eyes.</p> +<p>The sun was dancing on a silvery world, from the rue de Rivoli +the fifes and drums still rattled out their march, close beside him +the Irishman was looking at him with his pleasant smile.</p> +<p>Suddenly, as a daring horseman might give rein to a young horse, +rejoicing in the risk, the boy discarded wisdom and its whispering +curb; his nature leaped forth in sudden comradeship, and +impulsively he held out his hand.</p> +<p>"Monsieur, forgive me!" he said. "The gods know best!"</p> +<p>He said the words in English, perfectly, easily, with that +faintest of all foreign intonations—the intonation that +clings to the Russian voice.</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_V'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER V</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">SO the step was taken, and two souls, drawn +together from different countries, different races, touched in a +first subtle fusion. With an ease kindled by the fine and stinging +air, stimulated by the crisp summons of the flutes and the martial +rattle of the drums, they bridged the thousand preliminaries that +usually hedge a friendship, and arrived in a moment of intuition at +that consciousness of fellowship that is the most divine of human +gifts.</div> +<p>As though the affair had been prearranged through countless +ages, they turned by one accord and forced a way through the crowd +that still encompassed them. Across the Place de la Concorde they +went, past the white statues, past the open space through which the +soldiers were still defiling like a dark stream in a snowbound +country. Each was drawn instinctively toward the Cours la +Reine—the point from whence the stream was pouring, the point +where the crowd of loiterers was sparsest, where the bare and +frosted trees caught the sun in a million dancing facets. Reaching +it, the boy looked up into the stranger's face with his fascinating +look of question and interest.</p> +<p>"Monsieur, tell me something! How did you know me again? And why +did you speak to me?"</p> +<p>The question was grave, with the charming gravity that was wont +to cross his gayety as shadows chase each other across a sunlit +pool. His lips were parted naïvely, his curious slate-gray +eyes demanded the truth.</p> +<a name="souls"></a> +<center><img src="images/ill044.jpg" width="400" height="613" alt= +"TWO SOULS, DRAWN TOGETHER, TOUCHED IN A FIRST SUBTLE FUSION"></center> +<h5>TWO SOULS, DRAWN TOGETHER, TOUCHED IN A FIRST SUBTLE +FUSION</h5> +<p>The Irishman recognized the demand, and answered it.</p> +<p>"Now that you put it to me," he said, thoughtfully, "I'm not +sure that I can tell you. There's something about you—" His +thoughtfulness deepened, and he studied the boy through narrowed +eyes. "It isn't that you're odd in any way."</p> +<p>The boy reddened.</p> +<p>"It isn't that you're odd," he insisted, "but somehow you're +such a slip of a boy—" His voice grew meditative and he +recurred to his native trick of phrasing, as he always did when +interested or moved.</p> +<p>"But why did you speak to me? I'm not interesting."</p> +<p>"Oh yes, you are!"</p> +<p>"How am I interesting?" There was a flash in the gray eyes that +revealed new flecks of gold.</p> +<p>The Irishman hesitated.</p> +<p>"Well, I can't explain it," he said, slowly, "unless I tell you +that you throw a sort of spell—and that sounds absurd. You +see, I've knocked about the world a bit, east and west, but at the +back of everything I'm an Irishman; I have a fondness for the +curious and the poetical and the mysterious, and somehow you seemed +to me last night to be mystery itself, with your silence and your +intentness." He dropped his voice to the meditative key, +unconsciously enjoying its soft, half-melancholy cadences, and as +he spoke the boy felt some chord in his own personality vibrate to +the mind that had asked for no introduction, demanded no +credentials, that had decreed their friendship and materialized +it.</p> +<p>"No," the Irishman mused on, "there's no explaining it. You were +mystery itself, and you fired my imagination, because I happen to +come from a country of dreams. We Irish are born dreamers; +sometimes we never wake up at all, and then we're counted failures. +But, I tell you what, when all's said and done, we see what other +men don't see. For instance, what do you think my two friends saw +in you last night?"</p> +<p>The boy shook his head, and there was a tremor of nervousness +about his mouth.</p> +<p>"They saw something dangerous—something to be avoided. Yet +Mac is a millionaire several times over, and Billy is distinctly a +diplomatist with a future."</p> +<p>The boy forced a smile; he was beginning to shrink from the +pleasant scrutiny, to wish that the vaporous fog of last night +might dim the searching light of the morning.</p> +<p>"What did they see?" he asked.</p> +<p>The Irishman looked at him humorously. "I hardly like to tell it +to you," he said, "but they marked you for an anarchist. An +anarchist, for all the world! As if any anarchist alive would +travel first-class in third-class clothes! You see, I'm blunt."</p> +<p>The boy, studying him, half in fear, half in doubt, laughed +suddenly in quick relief and amusement.</p> +<p>"An anarchist! How droll!"</p> +<p>"Wasn't it? I told them so. I also told them—"</p> +<p>"What?"</p> +<p>"My own beliefs."</p> +<p>"And your beliefs?"</p> +<p>"No! No! You won't draw me! But I'll tell you this much, for +I've told it before. I knew you were no common creature of +intrigue; I accepted you as mystery personified."</p> +<p>"And now you would solve me?" In his returning confidence the +boy's eyes danced.</p> +<p>"God forbid!" The vehemence of the reply was comic, and the +Irishman himself laughed as the words escaped him. "Oh no!" he +added, soberly. "Keep your mask! I don't want to tear it from you. +Later on, perhaps, I'll take a peep behind; but I can accept +mysteries and miracles—I was born into the Roman Catholic +Church."</p> +<p>"And I into the Greek."</p> +<p>"Ah! My first peep!"</p> +<p>"And what do you see?"</p> +<p>"Do you know, I see a queer thing. I see a boy who has thought. +You have thought. Don't deny it!"</p> +<p>"On religion?"</p> +<p>"On religion—and other things; you acknowledge it in one +look."</p> +<p>The boy laughed, like a child who has been caught at some +forbidden game.</p> +<p>"Perhaps it was your imagination."</p> +<p>"Perhaps! But, look here, we can't stand all day discoursing in +the Cours la Reine! Where shall we wander—left or right?" He +nodded first in the direction of the river, then toward the large +building that faced them on the right, from the roof of which an +array of small flags fluttered an invitation.</p> +<p>The boy's eyes followed his movement. "Pictures!" he exclaimed. +"I didn't know there was an exhibition open."</p> +<p>"Live and learn! Come along!"</p> +<p>Together they stepped into the roadway, where the frosty surface +was scarred by the soldiers' feet, and together they reached the +doorway of the large building and read the legend, +"<i>Soctiété Peintres et Sculpteurs +Français</i>."</p> +<p>The Irishman read the words with the faintly humorous, faintly +sceptical glance that he seemed to bestow upon the world at +large.</p> +<p>"Remember I'm throwing out no bait, but I expect 'twill be value +for a couple of francs."</p> +<p>They entered the bare hall and, mounting a cold and rigid +staircase, found themselves confronted by a turnstile.</p> +<p>The Irishman was in the act of laying a two-franc piece in the +hand of the custodian when the boy plucked him by the sleeve and, +turning, he saw the curious eyes full of a sudden anxiety.</p> +<p>"Monsieur, pardon me! You know Paris well?"</p> +<p>"I live here for five months out of the twelve."</p> +<p>"Then you can tell me if—if this exhibition will be well +attended. I want with all my heart to see the pictures, but +I—I dislike crowds—fashionable crowds." His voice was +agitated; it was as if he had suddenly awakened from his pleasant +dream of Bohemian comradeship to a remembrance of the Paris that +lay about him.</p> +<p>The Irishman expressed no surprise: his only reply was to move +nearer to the guardian of the turnstile.</p> +<p>"Monsieur," he said in French, "have the goodness to inform me +how many persons have passed through the turnstile this +morning?"</p> +<p>The man looked at him without interest, though with some +surprise. 'Not many of the world were to be seen at such an hour,' +he informed him. 'So far, he had admitted two +gentlemen—artists, and three ladies—American.'</p> +<p>The Irishman waved his hand toward the turnstile.</p> +<p>"In with you! The world forgetting, by the world forgot!"</p> +<p>His ease of manner was contagious. Whatever misgivings had +assailed the boy were banished with this reassurance, and his +confidence flowed back as the custodian took the two-franc piece +and the turnstile clicked twice, making them free of the long, bare +galleries that opened in front of them.</p> +<p>Inured as he was to cold, he shivered as they passed into the +first of these long rooms, and involuntarily buried his chin in the +collar of his coat. The chill of the place was vaultlike; the cold, +gray light that penetrated it held nothing of the sun's comfort, +while the small, black stove set in the middle of the room was a +mere travesty of warmth.</p> +<p>"God bless my soul!" began the Irishman, "this is art for art's +sake—"</p> +<p>But there he stopped, for his companion, with the impetuosity of +his temperament, had suddenly caught sight of a picture that +interested him, and had darted across the room, leaving him to his +own reflections.</p> +<p>The boy was standing perfectly still, entirely engrossed, when +he came silently up behind him, and paused to look over his +shoulder. They were alone in the vast and chilly room save for one +attendant who dozed over some knitting in a corner near the door. +Away into the distance stretched the other rooms, bound one to the +other like links in a chain. From the third of these came the +penetrating voices of the American ladies, descanting +unhesitatingly upon the pictures; while in the second the two +artists could be seen flitting from one canvas to another with a +restless, nervous activity.</p> +<p>These facts came subconsciously to the Irishman, for his eyes +and his thoughts were for the boy and the subject of the boy's +interest—a picture curiously repulsive, yet curiously binding +in its realism of conception. It was a large canvas that formed one +of a group of five or six studies by a particular artist. The +details of the picture scarcely held the mind, for the imagination +of the beholder was instantly caught and enchained by the central +figure—the figure of a great ape, painted with cruel and +extraordinary truth. The animal was squatting upon the ground, +devouring a luscious fruit; its small and greedy eyes were alight +with gluttony; in its unbridled appetite, its hairy fingers crushed +the fruit against its sharp teeth, while the juice dripped from its +mouth.</p> +<p>The intimate, undisguised portrayal of greed shocked the +susceptibilities, but it was the hideous human attributes patent in +the brute that disgusted the imagination. With a terrible cunning +of mind and brush the artist had laid bare a vice that civilization +cloaks.</p> +<p>For two or three minutes the boy stood immovable, then he looked +back over his shoulder, and the man behind him was surprised at the +expression that had overspread his face, the sombre light that +glowed in his eyes. In a moment the adventurer was lost, another +being had come uppermost—a strange, unexpected being.</p> +<p>"What do you think of this picture?"</p> +<p>The Irishman did not answer for a moment, then his eyes returned +to the canvas and his tongue was loosed.</p> +<p>"If you want to know," he said, "I think it's the most damnable +thing I've ever seen. When the Gallic mind runs to morbidity +there's nothing to touch it for filth."</p> +<p>"Why filth?"</p> +<p>"Why filth? My dear boy, look at this—and this!" He +pointed to the other pictures, each a study of monkey life, each a +travesty of some human passion.</p> +<p>The boy obeyed, conscientiously and slowly, then once more his +eyes challenged his companion's.</p> +<p>"I say again, why filth?"</p> +<p>"Because there is enough of the beast in every man without +advertising it."</p> +<p>"You admit that there is something of the beast in every +man?"</p> +<p>"Naturally."</p> +<p>"Then why fear to see it?" The boy's face was pale, his eyes +still challenged.</p> +<p>The other made a gesture of impatience. "It isn't a question of +fear; it is a question of—well, of taste."</p> +<p>"Taste!" The boy tossed the word to scorn.</p> +<p>"What would you substitute?"</p> +<p>"Truth." There was a tremor in his voice, a veil seemed to fall +upon his youth, arresting its carelessness, sobering its +vitality.</p> +<p>The Irishman raised his brows. "Truth, eh?"</p> +<p>"Yes. It is only possible to live when we know life truly, see +it and value it truly."</p> +<p>"There may be perverted truth."</p> +<p>"You say that because this truth we speak of displeases you; yet +this is no more a perversion of the truth than"—he glanced +round the walls—"than that, for example; yet you would +approve of that."</p> +<p>He waved his hand toward another painting, a delicate and +charming conception of a half-clothed woman, a picture in which the +flesh-tints, the drapery, the lights all harmonized with exquisite +art.</p> +<p>"You would approve of that because it pleases your eye and +soothes your senses, yet you know that all womankind is not slim +and graciou—that all life is not lived in boudoirs."</p> +<p>"Neither is man all beast."</p> +<p>"Ah, that is it! If we are to be students of human nature we +must not be swayed in one direction or the other; and that is the +difficulty—to be dispassionate. Sometimes it is—very +difficult!"</p> +<p>It came with a charm indescribable, this sudden admission of +weakness, accompanied by a deprecating, pleading glance, and the +Irishman was filled with a sudden sense of having recovered +something personal and precious.</p> +<p>"What are you?" he cried. "It's my turn to seek the truth now. +What are you, you incomprehensible being?"</p> +<p>The boy laughed, the old careless, light-hearted laugh of the +creature infinitely free.</p> +<p>"Do not ask! Do not ask!" he said. "A riddle is only interesting +while it is unsolved."</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_VI'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">WITH the laugh the personal moment passed. +Henceforward it was the technique of the pictures, the +individualism of the artists that claimed the boy's attention, and +in this new field he proved himself yet another being—a +creature of quick perception and curiously mature judgment, +appreciative and observant, critical and generous.</div> +<p>In warm and interested discussion they made the tour of the +rooms, and when they emerged again into the frosty morning air and +were greeted by the dazzle of the sun, each was conscious of a +deeper understanding. A new expression of interest and something of +respect was visible in the Irishman's face as he looked down on the +puzzling, elusive being whom he had picked up from the skirts of +chance as he might have filched a jewel or a coin.</p> +<p>"Look here, boy!" he said, "we mustn't say good-bye just yet. +Come across the river, and let's find some little place where we +can get a seat and a cup of coffee."</p> +<p>The boy's only answer was to turn obediently, as the other +slipped his hand through his arm, and to allow himself to be guided +back across the Cours la Reine and over the Pont Alexandre III.</p> +<p>The bridge looked almost as impressive as the Place de la +Concorde under its white garment, and his glance ranged from the +high columns, topped by the winged horses, to the thronging bronze +lamps, while the sense of breath and freedom fitted with his secret +thoughts.</p> +<p>Leaving the river behind them, they made their way onward across +the Esplanade des Invalides, through the serried lines of trees, +stark and formal against the January sky, to the rue Fabert. Here, +in the rue Fabert, lay that note of contrast that is bound into the +very atmosphere of Paris—the note that touches the +imagination to so acute an interest. Here shabby, broken-down shops +rubbed shoulders with fine old entries, entries that savored of +other times in the hint of roomy court-yard and green garden to be +caught behind their gateways; here were creameries that conjured +the country to the eager senses, and laundries that exhaled a very +aroma of work in the hot steam that poured through their windows +and in the babble of voices that arose from the women who stood +side by side, iron in hand, bending over the long, spotless tables +piled with linen.</p> +<p>It was a touch of Parisian life, small in itself, but subtle and +suggestive as the premonition of spring awakened by the twittering +of the sparrows in the tall, leafless trees, and the throbbing song +of a caged canary that floated down from a window above a shop. It +was suggestive of that Parisian life that is as restless as the +sea, as uncontrollable, as possessed of hidden currents.</p> +<p>Involuntarily the boy paused and glanced up at the bird in its +cage—the bird that, regardless of the garden of greenstuffs +pushed through its bars, was pouring forth its heart to the pale +sun in a frenzy of worship.</p> +<p>"How strange that is!" he said. "If I were a bird and saw the +great sky, knowing myself imprisoned, I should beat my life out +against my cage."</p> +<p>The Irishman looked down upon him. "I wonder!" he said, +slowly.</p> +<p>The quick, gray eyes flashed up to his. "You doubt it?"</p> +<p>"I don't know! 'On my soul, I don't know!"</p> +<p>"Would you not beat your life out against a cage?"</p> +<p>"I wonder that too! I'd like to think I would, but—"</p> +<p>"You imagine you would hesitate? You think you would +shrink?"</p> +<p>"I don't know! Human nature is so damnably patient. Come along! +here's the place we're looking for." He drew the boy across the +road to the doorway of a little <i>café</i>, over the door +of which hung the somewhat pretentious sign Maison Gustav.</p> +<p>The Maison Gustav was scarcely a more appetizing place than the +Hôtel Railleux. One-half of its interior was partitioned off +and filled with long tables, at which, earlier in the day, workmen +were served with <i>déjeuner</i>, while the other and +smaller portion, reserved for more fastidious guests, was fitted +with a counter, ranged with fruit and cakes, and with half a dozen +round marble-topped tables, provided with chairs.</p> +<p>This more refined portion of the <i>café</i> was empty of +customers as the two entered. With the ease and decision of an +<i>habitué</i>, the Irishman chose the table nearest to the +counter, and presently a woman appeared from some inner region, +and, approaching her customers, eyed them with that mixture of +shrewd observation and polite welcome that belongs to the +Frenchwoman who follows the ways of commerce.</p> +<p>"Good-day, messieurs!" She inclined her head to one side like a +plump and speculative bird, and her hands began mechanically to +smooth her black alpaca apron.</p> +<p>"Good-day, madame!" The Irishman rose and took off his hat with +a flourish that was essentially flattering.</p> +<p>The bright little eyes of the <i>Parisienne</i> sparkled, and +her round face relaxed into the inevitable smile.</p> +<p>'What could she have the pleasure of offering monsieur? It was +late, but she had an excellent <i>ragoût</i>, now a little +cold, perhaps, but capable in an instant—'</p> +<p>The stranger put up his hand. "Madame, we could not think of +giving you the trouble—"</p> +<p>"Monsieur, a pleasure—"</p> +<p>"No, madame, it is past the hour of <i>déjeuner</i>. All +we need is your charming hospitality and two cups of coffee."</p> +<p>'Coffee! But certainly! While monsieur was saying the word it +would be made and served.'</p> +<p>Madame hurried off, and in silence the Irishman took out his +cigarette-case and offered it to the boy. Bare and even cold as the +<i>café</i> was, there was a certain sense of shelter in the +closed glass door, in the blue film of cigarette smoke that +presently began to mount upward toward the ceiling, and in the +pleasant smell of coffee borne to them from unseen regions mingling +with the shrill, cheerful tones of their hostess's voice.</p> +<p>"A wonderful place, Paris, when all's said and done!" murmured +the Irishman, drawing in a long, luxurious breath of smoke. "How an +English restaurant-keeper would stare you out of countenance if you +demanded a modest cup of coffee when he had luncheon for you to +eat! But here, bless you, they acknowledge the rights of man. If +you want coffee, coffee you must have—and that with the best +grace in the world, lest your self-esteem be hurt! They're like my +people at home: consideration for the individual is the first +thing. It means nothing, a Saxon will tell you, and probably he's +quite right; but I'd sooner have a pleasant-spoken sinner any day +than a disagreeable saint. Ah, here comes madame!" The last words +he added in French, and the boy watched him in amused wonder as he +jumped to his feet and, meeting their hostess at the kitchen door, +insisted upon taking the tray from her hands.</p> +<p>Laughing, excited, and flattered, the little woman followed him +to the table.</p> +<p>'It was really too much! Monsieur was too kind!'</p> +<p>'On the contrary! It was not meant that woman should wait upon +man! Madame had accomplished her share in making this most +excellent coffee!'</p> +<p>He sniffed at the steaming pot with the air of a +connoisseur.</p> +<p>Madame laughed again, this time self-consciously. 'Well, her +coffee had been spoken of before now! Monsieur, her husband, who +was quite a <i>gourmet</i>—'</p> +<p>'Always declared there was no such coffee in all Paris! Was not +that so?'</p> +<p>Madame's laugh was now a gurgle of delight. 'How clever of +monsieur! Yes, it was what he said.'</p> +<p>'Of course it was! And now, how was this good husband? And how +was life treating them both?' He put the questions with deep +solicitude as he poured out the coffee, and madame, standing by the +table and smoothing her apron, grew serious, and before she was +aware was pouring forth the grievance that at the moment was +darkening her existence—the disappointment that had befallen +the Maison Gustav when her father-in-law, a market gardener near +Issy, who had a nice little sum of money laid by, had married again +at the age of sixty-four.</p> +<p>'Could monsieur conceive anything more grotesque? An old man of +sixty-four marrying a young woman of twenty! Of course there would +be a child!' Her shoulders went up, her hands went out in +expressive gesture. 'And her little Léon would be cheated of +his grandfather's money by this creature who—'</p> +<p>At this juncture the sound of a kettle boiling over brought the +story to an abrupt end, and madame flew off, leaving her guests to +a not unwelcome solitude.</p> +<p>As her black skirt whisked round the corner of the door the boy +looked at his companion.</p> +<p>"You come here often," he said.</p> +<p>The other laughed. "I've never set foot in the place before. +It's a way we Irish have of putting our fingers into other people's +pies! Some call it intrusion"—he glanced quizzically at the +boy—"but these good creatures understand it. They're more +human than the Saxon or the—" Again a glint of humor crossed +his face, as he paused on his unfinished sentence.</p> +<p>The boy reddened and impulsively leaned across the table.</p> +<p>"You have taught me something, monsieur," he said, shyly, "and I +have much to learn."</p> +<p>The other returned the glance seriously, intently. "What is it I +have taught you?"</p> +<p>"That in the smaller ways of life it is not possible to stand +quite alone."</p> +<p>The Irishman laid down his cigarette. With native quickness of +comprehension, the spirit of banter dropped from him, his mood +merged into the boy's mood.</p> +<p>"No," he said, "we are not meant to stand quite alone, and when +two of us are flung up against each other as we have been flung, by +a wave of circumstance, you may take it that the gods control the +currents. In our case I would say, 'Let's bow to the inevitable! +Let's be friends!'" He put out his hand and took the boy's strong, +slim fingers in his grasp.</p> +<p>"I don't want your secret," he added, with a quickening +interest, "but I want to know one thing. Tell me what you are +seeking here in Paris? Is it pleasure, or money, or what?"</p> +<p>He watched the boy's mobile face as he put his question: he saw +it swept by emotion, transfigured as if by some inner light; then +the hand in his trembled a little, and the gray eyes with their +flecks of gold were lifted to his own, giving insight into the +hidden soul.</p> +<p>"I want more than pleasure, monsieur—more than money," he +said. "I want first life—and then fame."</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_VII'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">IT trembled and hung upon the air—that +brief word "fame"—as it has so often hung and trembled in the +streets and in the <i>cafés</i> of Paris, winged with the +exuberance of youth, the faith in his mystic star that abides in +the heart of the artist. In that moment of confession the +individuality of the boy was submerged in his ambition; he belonged +to no country, to no sex. He was inspiration made +manifest—the flame fanned into being by the winds of the +universe, blown as those winds listed.</div> +<p>The Irishman looked into his burning face, and a curious +unnamable feeling thrilled him—a sense of enthusiasm, of +profound sadness, of poignant envy.</p> +<p>"You're not only seeking the greatest thing in the world," he +said, slowly, "but the cruellest. Failure may be cruel, but success +is crueller still. The gods are usurers, you know; they lend to +mortals, but they exact a desperate interest."</p> +<p>The boy's hand, still lying unconsciously in his, trembled +again.</p> +<p>"I know that; but it does not frighten me."</p> +<p>"A challenge? Take care! The gods are always listening."</p> +<p>"I know that. I am not afraid."</p> +<p>"So be it, then! I'll watch the duel. But what road do you +follow—music? literature? Art of some sort, of course; you +are artist all over."</p> +<p>Again the fire leaped to the boy's eyes. He snatched his hand +away in quick excitement.</p> +<p>"Look! I will show you!"</p> +<p>With the swiftness of lightning he whipped a pencil from his +pocket, pushed aside his coffee-cup, and began to draw upon the +marble-topped table as though his life depended upon his speed.</p> +<p>For ten minutes he worked feverishly, his face intensely +earnest, his head bent over his task, a lock of dark hair drooping +across his forehead; then he looked up, throwing himself back in +his chair and gazing up at his companion with the egotistical +triumph—the intense, childish satisfaction of the artist in +the first flush of accomplished work.</p> +<p>"Look! Look, now, at this!"</p> +<p>The Irishman laughed sympathetically; the artist, as belonging +to a race apart, was known by him and liked, but he rose and came +round the table with a certain scepticism. Life had taught him that +temperament and output are different things.</p> +<p>He leaned over the boy's chair; then suddenly he laid his hand +on his shoulder and gripped it, his own face lighting up.</p> +<p>"Why, boy!" he cried. "This is clever—clever—clever! +I'm a Dutchman, if this isn't the real thing! Why on earth didn't +you tell me you could do it?"</p> +<p>The boy laughed in sheer delight and, bending over the table, +added a lingering touch or two to his work—a rough expressive +sketch of himself standing back from an easel, a palette in his +left hand, a brush in his right, his hair unkempt, his whole +attitude comically suggestive of an artist in a moment of delirious +oblivion. It was the curt, abrupt expression of a mood, but there +was cleverness, distinction, humor in every line.</p> +<p>"Boy, this is fine! Fine! That duel will be fought, take my word +for it. But, look here, we must toast this first attempt! Madame! +Madame!" He literally shouted the words, and madame came flying +out.</p> +<p>"Madame, have you a liqueur brandy—very old? I have +discovered that this is a <i>fête</i> day."</p> +<p>"But certainly, monsieur! A <i>cognac</i> of the finest +excellence."</p> +<p>"Out with it, then! And bring two glasses—no, bring three +glasses! You must drink a toast with us!"</p> +<p>Madame bustled off, laughing and excited, and again the Irishman +gripped the boy's shoulder.</p> +<p>"You've taken me in!" he cried. "Absolutely and entirely taken +me in! I thought you a slip of a boy with a head full of notions, +and what do I find but that it's a little genius I've got! A +genius, upon my word! And here comes the blessed liquor!"</p> +<p>His whole-hearted enthusiasm was like fire, it leaped from one +to the other of his companions. As madame came back, gasping in her +haste, he ran to meet her, and, seizing the brandy and the glasses, +drew her with him to the table.</p> +<p>"Madame, you are a Frenchwoman—therefore an artist. Tell +me what you think of this!"</p> +<p>In his excitement he spoke in English, but madame understood his +actions if not his words. Full of curiosity she bent over the boy's +shoulder, peered into the sketch, then threw up her hands in +genuine admiration.</p> +<p>'Ah, but he was an artist, was monsieur! A true artist! It was +delicious—ravishing!' She turned from one of her customers to +the other. 'If monsieur would but put his name to this picture she +would never again have the table washed; and in time to come, when +he had made his big success—'</p> +<p>"Good, madame! Good! When he has made his big success he will +come back here and laugh and cry over this, and say, 'God be with +the youth of us!' as we say in my old country. Come, boy, put your +name to it!"</p> +<a name="clever"></a> +<center><img src="images/ill062.jpg" width="400" height="599" alt= +""WHY, BOY, THIS IS CLEVER—CLEVER—CLEVER!""></center> +<h5>"WHY, BOY, THIS IS CLEVER—CLEVER—CLEVER!"</h5> +<p>The boy glanced up at him. His face was aglow, there were tears +of emotion in his eyes.</p> +<p>"I can say nothing," he cried, "but that I—I have never +been so happy in my life." And, bending over his sketch, he wrote +across the marble-topped table a single word—the word +'Max.'</p> +<p>The Frenchwoman bent over his shoulder. "Max!" she murmured. "A +pretty name!"</p> +<p>The Irishman looked as well. "Max! So that's what they call you? +Max! Well, let's drink to it!" He filled the three glasses and +raised his own.</p> +<p>"To the name of Max!" he said. "May it be known from here to the +back of God's speed!" He swallowed the brandy and laid down his +glass.</p> +<p>"To M. Max!" The Frenchwoman smiled. "A great future, monsieur!" +She sipped and bowed.</p> +<p>Of the three, the boy alone sat motionless. His heart felt +strangely full, the tears in his eyes were dangerously near to +falling.</p> +<p>"Come, Max! Up with your glass!"</p> +<p>"Monsieur, I—I beg you to excuse me! My heart is very full +of your kindness."</p> +<p>"Nonsense, boy! Drink!"</p> +<p>The boy laughed with a catch in his breath, then he drank a +little with nervous haste, coughing as he laid his glass down. The +<i>cognac</i> of the Maison Gustav was of a fiery nature.</p> +<p>The Irishman laughed. "Ah, another peep behind the mask! You may +be an artist, young man—- you may have advanced +ideas—but, for all that, you're only out of the nursery! It's +for me to make a man of you, I see. Come, madame, the +<i>addition</i>, if you please! We must be going."</p> +<p>For a moment madame was lost in calculation, then she decorously +mentioned the amount of their debt.</p> +<p>The Irishman paid with the manner of a prince, and, slipping his +arm again through the boy's, moved to the door; there he looked +back.</p> +<p>"Good-day, madame! Many thanks for your charming hospitality! +Give my respects to monsieur, your husband—and kiss the +little Léon for me!"</p> +<p>They passed out into the rue Fabert, into the fresh and frosty +air, and involuntarily the boy's arm pressed his.</p> +<p>"How am I to thank you?" he murmured. "It is too much—this +kindness to a stranger."</p> +<p>The Irishman paused and looked at him. "Thanks be +damned!—and stranger be damned!" he said with sudden +vehemence. "Aren't we citizens of a free world? Must I know a man +for years before I can call him my friend? And must every one I've +known since childhood be my friend? I tell you I saw you and I +liked you—that was all, and 'twas enough."</p> +<p>Max looked at him with a certain grave simplicity. "Forgive me!" +he said.</p> +<p>Instantly the other's annoyance was dispelled. "Forgive! +Nonsense! Tell me your plans, that's all I want."</p> +<p>"My plans are very easy to explain. I shall rent a studio here +in Paris—and there I shall work."</p> +<p>"As a student?"</p> +<p>"No, I have had my years of study; I am older than you think." +He took no notice of the other's raised eyebrows. "I want to paint +a picture—a great picture. I am seeking the idea."</p> +<p>"Good! Good! Then we'll make that our basis—the search for +the idea. The search for the great idea!"</p> +<p>Max thrilled. 'The search for the idea! How splendid! Where must +it begin? Not in fashionable Paris! Oh, not in fashionable +Paris!'</p> +<p>"Fashionable Paris!" The Irishman laughed in loud disdain. "Oh +no! For us it must be the highways and the byways, eh?"</p> +<p>Max freed his arm. "Ah yes! that is what I want—that is +what I want. The highways and the byways. It is necessary that I am +very solitary here in Paris. Quite unknown, you +understand?—quite unnoticed."</p> +<p>"The mystery? I understand. And now, tell me, shall it be the +highways or the byways—Montmartre or the Quartier Latin?"</p> +<p>Max smiled decisively. "Montmartre."</p> +<p>"You know Montmartre?"</p> +<p>"No."</p> +<p>The Irishman laughed again. "Good!" he cried. "You're a fine +adventurer! You have the right spirit! Always know your own mind, +whatever else you're ignorant about! But I ought to tell you that +Montmartre swarms with your needy fellow-countrymen."</p> +<p>The boy looked up. "My needy fellow-countrymen will not harm +me—or know me."</p> +<p>"Good again! Then the coast is clear! I only thought to warn +you."</p> +<p>"I appreciate the thought." For an instant the old reserve +touched the voice.</p> +<p>"Now, Max! Now! Now!" The other turned to him, caught his arm +again, and swung him out into the Esplanade des Invalides. "You're +not to be doing that, you know! You're not! You're not! I see +through you like a pane of glass. Sometimes you forget yourself and +get natural, like you did in the <i>café</i> this time back; +then, all of a sudden, some imp of suspicion shakes his tail at you +and says, 'Look here, young man, put that Irishman in his place! +Keep him at a respectable arm's length!' Now, isn't that gospel +truth?"</p> +<p>The boy laughed, vanquished. "Monsieur," he said, naïvely, +"I will not do it again."</p> +<p>"That's right! You see, I'm not interesting or picturesque +enough to suspect. When all's said and done, I'm just a poor devil +of an Irishman with enough imagination to prevent his doing any +particular harm in this world, and enough money to prevent his +doing any special good. My name is Edward Fitzgerald Blake, and I +have an old barracks of a castle in County Clare. I have five +aunts, seven uncles, and twenty-four first cousins, every one of +whom thinks me a lost soul; but I have neither sister nor brother, +wife nor child to help or hinder me. There now! I have gone to +confession, and you must give me absolution and an easy +penance!"</p> +<p>Max laughed. "Thank you, monsieur!"</p> +<p>"Not 'monsieur,' for goodness' sake! Plain Ned, if you don't +mind."</p> +<p>"Ned?" The slight uncertainty, coupled with the foreign +intonation, lent a charm to the name.</p> +<p>"That's it! But I never heard it sound half so well before. +Personally, it always struck me as being rather like its +owner—of no particular significance. But I must be coming +down to earth again, I have an appointment with our friend +McCutcheon at three o'clock." He drew out his watch. "Oh, by the +powers and dominations, I have only two minutes to keep it in! How +the time has raced! I say, there's an auto-taxi looming on the +horizon, over by the Invalides; I must catch it if I can. Come, +boy! Put your best foot foremost!"</p> +<p>Laughing and running like a couple of school-boys, they +zigzagged through the labyrinth of formal trees, and secured the +cab as it was wheeling toward the <i>quais</i>.</p> +<p>"Good!" exclaimed Blake. "And now, what next? Can I give you a +lift?" His foot was on the step of the cab, his fingers on the +handle of the door, his face, flushed from his run and from the +cold, looked pleasantly young. The boy's heart went out to him in a +glow of comradeship.</p> +<p>"No, I will remain here. But I—I want to see you soon +again. May I?"</p> +<p>"May you? Say the word! To-morrow? To-night?" The cab was +snorting impatience; Blake opened the door and stepped inside.</p> +<p>The boy colored. "To-night?"</p> +<p>"Right! To-night it shall be! To-night we'll scale the heights." +He held out his hand.</p> +<p>Max took it smilingly. "You have not asked me where I live."</p> +<p>"Never thought of it! Where is it?"</p> +<p>"The Hôtel Railleux, in the rue de Dunkerque."</p> +<p>"Not a very festive locality! But sufficient for the day, eh? +Well, I'll be outside the door of the Hôtel Railleux at nine +o'clock."</p> +<p>"At nine o'clock. I shall be awaiting you."</p> +<p>"Right again! Good-bye! It's been a good morning."</p> +<p>Max smiled, a smile that seemed to have caught something of the +sun's brightness, something of the promise of spring trembling in +the pale sky.</p> +<p>"It has been a good morning. I shall never forget it."</p> +<p>Blake laughed. "Don't say that, boy! We'll oust it with many a +better."</p> +<p>He released the boy's hand and gave the address to the +chauffeur. There was a moment's pause, a rasp and wrench of +machinery, and the willing little cab flew off toward the nearest +bridge.</p> +<p>Max stood watching it, obsessed by a strange sensation. This +morning he had been utterly alone; this morning the fair, cold face +of Paris had been immobile and speculative. Now a miracle had come +to pass; the coldness had been swept aside and the beauty, the +warm, palpitating humanity had shone into his eyes, dazzling +him—fascinating him.</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_VIII'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">NINE o'clock found Max waiting in the rue de +Dunkerque. Paris, consummate actress that she is, was already +arraying herself for the nightly appeal to her audience of +pleasure-seekers. Like a dancer in her dressing-room, she but +awaited the signal to step forth into the glamour of the +footlights; the rouge was on her lips, the stars shone in her hair, +the jewelled slippers caressed her light feet. Even here, in the +colorless region of the Gare du Nord, the perfumed breath of the +courtesan city crept like the fumes of wine; the insidious sense of +nocturnal energy swept the brain, as the traffic jingled by and the +crowds upon the footpaths thronged into the <i>cafés</i> and +overflowed into the roadway.</div> +<p>To the boy, walking slowly up and down, with eager eyes that +sought the one face among the many, the scene came as a joyous +revelation that called inevitably to his youth and his vitality. He +made no pretence of analyzing his sensations: he was stirred, +intoxicated by the movement, the lights, the naturalness and +artificiality that walked hand-in-hand in so strange a fellowship. +A new excitement, unlike the excitement of the morning, was at work +within him; his blood danced, his brain answered to every fleeting +picture. He was in that subtlest of all moods when the mind swings +out upon the human tide, comprehending its every ripple with a deep +intuition that seems like a retrospective knowledge. He had never +until this moment stood alone in a Paris street at night; he had +never before rubbed shoulders with a Parisian night crowd; but the +inspiration was there—the exaltation—that made him one +with this restless throng of men and women whose antecedents were +unknown to him, whose future was veiled to his gaze.</p> +<p>The sensation culminated when, out of the crowd, a hand was laid +upon his shoulder and a familiar voice rose above the babble of +sound.</p> +<p>"Well, and are we girded for the heights?"</p> +<p>It came at the right moment, it lilted absolutely with his +thoughts—the soft, pleasant tones, the easy friendliness that +seemed to accept all things as they came. His instant answer was to +smile into the Irishman's face and to press the arm that had been +slipped through his.</p> +<p>"It's too early for anything very characteristic, but there are +always impressions to be got."</p> +<p>Again the boy replied by a pressure of the arm, and together he +and Blake began to walk. The strange pleasure of yielding himself +to this man's will filtered through Max's being again, as it had +done that morning, painting the world in rosy tints. The situation +was anomalous, but he ignored the anomaly. His boats were burned; +the great ice-bound sea protected him from the past; he was here in +Paris, in the first moments of a fascinating present, under the +guardianship of this comrade whose face he had never seen until +yesterday, whose very name was still unfamiliar to his ears. It was +anomalous, but it held happiness; and who, equipped with youth and +health, starting out upon life's road, stops to question happiness? +He was the adventuring prince in the fairy-tale: every step was +taken upon enchanted ground.</p> +<p>Nothing gave him cause for quarrel as they made their way +onward. Even the Boulevard de Magenta, with its prosaic tram-lines, +its large, cheap shops, its common <i>brasseries</i> and spanning +railway bridge, seemed a place of promise; and as they passed on, +ever mounting toward Montmartre, his brain quickened to new joy, +new curiosity in every flaunting advertisement, every cobble-stone +in the long steep way of the Boulevard Barbés, the rue de la +Nature, and the rue de Clignancourt, until at length they emerged +into the rue André de Sarte—that narrow street, quaint +indeed in its dark old houses and its small, mysterious wine shops +that savor of Italy or Spain.</p> +<p>They paused, at the corner of the rue André de Sarte, by +the doorway of an old, overcrowded curio shop—the curio shop +that in time to come was destined to become so familiar a landmark +to them both, to stand sentinel at the gateway of so many +emotions.</p> +<p>The lights, the shadows, the effects were all uncertain in this +strange and fascinating neighborhood. High above them, white +against the winter sky, glimmered the domes of the +Sacré-Coeur, looking down in symbolic silence upon the +restless city; to the left stretched the rue Ronsard, with its +deserted market and lonely pavement; to the right, the Escalier de +Sainte-Marie, picturesque as its name, wound its precipitous way +apparently to the very stars, while at their feet, creeping upward +to the threshold of the church, was the plantation of rocks, trees, +and holly bushes that in the mysterious darkness seemed aquiver +with a thousand whispered secrets. There was deep contrast here to +the excitement, the vivacity of the boulevards; it seemed as if +some shadow from the white domes above had given sanctuary to the +spirit of the place—the familiar spirit of the time-stained +houses, the stone steps worn by many feet, the dark, naked +trees.</p> +<p>The boy's hand again pressed his companion's arm.</p> +<p>"What are those steps?" He pointed to the right.</p> +<p>"The Escalier de Sainte-Marie; they lead up to the rue +Müller, and, if you desire it, to the Sacré-Coeur +itself. Shall we climb?"</p> +<p>"But yes! Certainly!" The boy's voice was tense and eager. He +hurried forward, drawing his companion with him, and side by side +they began the mounting of the stone steps—those steps, +flanked by the row of houses, that rise one above the other, as if +emulous to attain the skies.</p> +<p>Up they went, their ears attentive to the conflicting sounds +that drifted forth from the doorways, their nostrils assailed by +the faintly pungent scent of the shrubs in the plantation. Higher +and higher they climbed, sensible with each step of a greater +isolation, of a rarer, clearer air. Above them, in one of the +higher houses in the rue Müller, some one was playing a +fiddle, and the piercing sweet sounds came through the night like a +human voice, adding the poignancy, the passion and pathos of human +things to the aloofness and unreality of the scene.</p> +<p>The boy was the first to catch this lonely music, and as though +it called to him in some curious way, he suddenly freed his arm +from Blake's and ran forward up the steps.</p> +<p>When Blake overtook him he had passed up the rue Müller, +and was leaning over the wooden paling that fronts the +Sacré-Coeur, his elbows resting upon it, his face between +his hands, his eyes held by the glitter of Paris lying below +him.</p> +<p>Blake came quietly up behind him. "I thought you had given me +the slip."</p> +<p>He turned. Again the light of inspiration, the curious +illumination was apparent in his face.</p> +<p>"This is most wonderful!" he said. "Most wonderful! It is here +that I shall live. Here—here—with Paris at my +feet."</p> +<p>Blake laughed—laughed good-humoredly at the finality, the +artless arrogance of the tone.</p> +<p>"It may not be so easy to find a dwelling in the shadow of the +Sacré-Coeur."</p> +<p>Max looked at him with calm, grave eyes. "I do not consider +difficulties, monsieur. It is here that I shall live. My mind is +made up."</p> +<p>"But this is not the artists' quarter. You may seek your +inspiration in Montmartre, but you must have your studio across the +river."</p> +<p>"Why must I? What compels me?"</p> +<p>The Irishman shrugged his shoulders. "Nothing compels you, but +it is the thing to do. You can live here, certainly, if you want +to—there is no law to forbid it—and you can find a +studio on the Boulevard de Clichy; but the other is the thing to +do."</p> +<p>The boy smiled his young wise smile. "Monsieur, there is only +one thing to do—the thing one wants to do, the thing the +heart compels. If I am to know Paris I will know her from +here—study her, love her from here. This place is one of +miracle. One might know life here, living in the skies. Listen! +That musician knows it!" He thrust out his hand impulsively and +caught Blake's in a pressure full of nervous tension, full of +magnetism. "What is it he plays? Tell me! Tell me!"</p> +<p>His touch, his excitement fired Blake's Celtic blood, banishing +his mood of criticism.</p> +<p>"The man is playing scraps from +<i>Louise</i>—Charpentier's <i>Louise</i>."</p> +<p>"I have never heard <i>Louise</i>."</p> +<p>"What! And you a student of Paris? Why, it's Charpentier's hymn +to Montmartre. Listen, now!" His voice quickened. "He's playing a +bit out of the night scene. He's playing the declaration of the +<i>Noctambule</i>:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'><span>"Je suis le Plaisir de Paris!<br></span> +<span class='i2'>Je vais vers les Amantes—que le Désir +tourmente!<br></span> <span>Je vais, cherchant les coeurs qu'oubli +a le bonheur.<br></span> <span class='i2'>Là-bas glanant le +Rire, ici semant l'Envie,<br></span> <span>Prêchant partout +le droit de tous à la folie;<br></span> <span class='i2'>Je +suis le Procureur de la grande Cité!<br></span> <span>Ton +humble serviteur—ou ton maître!"<br></span></div> +</div> +<p>He murmured the words below his breath, pausing as the music +deepened with the passion of the player and the sinister song +poured into the night.</p> +<p>Then came a break, a pause, and the music flowed forth again, +but curiously altered, curiously softened in character.</p> +<p>Max's fingers tightened. "Ah, but listen now, my friend!"</p> +<p>Blake turned to him in quick appreciation. "Good! Good! You are +an artist! That's Louise singing in the third act, on the day she +is to be Muse of Montmartre. It is up here in the little house her +lover has provided for her; it is twilight, and she is in the +garden, looking down upon all this"—he waved his hand +comprehensively—"it is her moment—the triumph and +climax of love. Try to think what she is saying!" He paused, and +they stood breathless and enchained, while the violin trembled +under the hand of its master, vibrant and penetrating.</p> +<p>"What is it she says?" Max whispered the words.</p> +<p>Blake's reply was to murmur the burden of the song in the same +hushed way as he had spoken the song of the <i>Noctambule</i>.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'><span>"Depuis le jour où je me suis +donnée, toute fleurie semble ma destinée.<br></span> +<span>Je crois rêver sous un ciel de féerie, +l'âme encore grisée de ton premier +baiser!"<br></span></div> +</div> +<p>But, abruptly—abruptly as a light might be +extinguished—the music ceased, and Max released Blake's +hand.</p> +<p>"It is all most wonderful," he said; "but the words of that +song—they do not quite please me."</p> +<p>"Why? Have you never sung that '<i>l'âme encore +grisée de ton premier baiser</i>!'"</p> +<p>Then, as if half ashamed of the emotional moment, he gave a +little laugh, satirical and yet sad.</p> +<p>"Was there never a little dancer," he added, "never a little +model in all these years—and you so very ancient?"</p> +<p>The boy ignored the jest.</p> +<p>"I am not a believer in love," he said, evasively.</p> +<p>"Not a believer in love! Well, upon my soul, the world is +getting very old! You look like a child from school, and you talk +like some quaint little book I might have picked up on the +<i>quais</i>. What does it all mean?"</p> +<p>At the perplexity of the tone Max laughed. "Very little, <i>mon +ami</i>! I am no philosopher; but about this love, I have thought a +little, and have gained to a conclusion. It is like this! Light +love is desire of pleasure; great love is fear of being alone."</p> +<p>"Then you hold that man should be alone?"</p> +<p>"Why not?" Max shrugged his shoulders. "We come into the world +alone; we go out of it alone."</p> +<p>"A cold philosophy!"</p> +<p>"A true one, I think. If more lives were based upon it we would +have more achievement and less emotion."</p> +<p>The Irishman's enthusiasm caught sudden fire.</p> +<p>"And who wants less emotion? Isn't emotion the salt of life? +Why, where would a poor devil of a wanderer like myself be, if he +hadn't the dream in the back of his head that the right woman was +waiting for him somewhere?"</p> +<p>Max watched him seriously.</p> +<p>"Then you have never loved?"</p> +<p>"Never loved? God save us! I have been in and out of love ever +since I was seventeen. But, bless your heart, that has nothing to +do with the right woman!"</p> +<p>Max's intent eyes flashed. "And you think the right woman will +be content to take you—after all that?"</p> +<p>Blake came a step nearer, leaning over the parapet, his shoulder +touching his companion's.</p> +<p>"Boy," he said, in a changed tone, "listen to me. It's a big +subject, this subject of love and liking—too big for me to +riddle out, perhaps. But this I know, the world was made as it is, +and neither you nor I can change it; no, nor ten thousand cleverer +than we! It's all a mystery, and the queerest bit of mystery in it +is that a man may go down into the depths and rub shoulders with +the worst, and yet keep the soul of him clean for the one +woman."</p> +<p>"Don't you think there are men who can do without either the +depths or the one woman?"</p> +<p>"There are abnormalities, of course."</p> +<p>Max waived the words. "I am serious. I ask you if you do not +believe that there are certain people to whom these things you +speak of are poor things—people who believe that they are +sufficient unto themselves?"</p> +<p>The other's mouth twisted into a sarcastic smile.</p> +<p>"Show me the man who is sufficient unto himself!"</p> +<p>Swiftly—as swiftly as he had whipped the pencil from his +pocket in the <i>café</i> that morning—Max stepped +back, his head up, his hand resting lightly on the wooden +parapet.</p> +<p>"Monsieur! You see him!"</p> +<p>Blake's expression changed to keen surprise; he turned sharply +and peered into the boy's face.</p> +<p>"You?" he said, incredulously. "You, a slip of a boy, to ignore +the softer side of life and set yourself up against Nature? Take +that fairy-tale elsewhere!"</p> +<p>Max laughed. "Very well, my friend, wait and see!"</p> +<p>"And do you know how long I give you to defy the world, the +flesh, and the devil? A full-blooded young animal like you!"</p> +<p>"How long?"</p> +<p>"Three months—not a day more."</p> +<p>"Three months!" Max laughed, and, as had happened before, his +mood altered with the laugh. The moment of artistic exaltation +passed; again he was the boy—the adventurer, brimming with +spirits, thirsting to break a lance with life. "Three months! Very +well! Wait and see! And, in the mean time, Paris is awake, is she +not?"</p> +<p>Blake looked at the laughing face, the bright eyes, and shook +his head.</p> +<p>"I believe you're a cluricaun, come all the way from the bogs of +Clare! Come here, and take my arm again, or you'll be vanishing +into that plantation!"</p> +<p>It is unlikely that Max understood all the other's phrases, but +he understood the lenient, bantering tone that had in it a touch of +something bordering upon affection, and with a gracious eagerness +he stepped forward and slipped his hand through the proffered +arm.</p> +<p>"Where are you going to take me?" All the lightness, all the +arrogance had melted from his voice, his tone was almost as soft, +almost as submissive as a woman's.</p> +<p>Blake looked down upon him. "I hardly know—after that +philosophy of yours! I thought of taking you to a little Montmartre +<i>cabaret</i>, where many a poet wrote his first verses and many +an artist sang his first song—a dingy place, but a place with +atmosphere."</p> +<p>Max clung to his arm, the light flashing into his eyes. "Oh, my +friend, that is the place! That is the place! Let us go—let +us run, lest we miss a moment!"</p> +<p>"Good! Then hey for the Boulevard de Clichy and the quest of the +great idea!"</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_IX'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">THE ascent of the heights had been exciting, the +descent held a sense of satisfaction. At a more sober pace, with a +finer, less exuberant sense of comradeship, the two passed down the +hundred-odd steps of the Escalier de Sainte-Marie, taking an +occasional peep into some dark and silent corner, halting here and +there to glance into the dimly lighted hallway of some mysterious +house. On the upward way they had been all anticipation; now, with +appetites appeased, they toyed with their sensations like diners +with their dessert.</div> +<p>"Who are the people living in these houses?" The boy put the +question in a whisper, as if fearful of disturbing the strange +silence, the close secrecy that hung about them.</p> +<p>"The people who live here? God knows! Probably you would find a +<i>blanchisseuse</i> on the ground floor, and on the fourth a poet +or perhaps a musician, like our fiddler of <i>Louise</i>. This is +the real Bohemia, you know—not the conscious Bohemia, but the +true one, that is lawless simply because it knows no laws."</p> +<p>They had come to the end of the steps and were once again +traversing the dim rue André de Sarte, the boy's eyes and +ears awake to every impression.</p> +<p>"Yes," he said in slow and meditative answer. "Yes, I think I +understand. It must be wonderful to be born unfettered."</p> +<p>"I don't know about wonderful; it's a profoundly interesting +condition. You get that blending of egoism and +originality—daring and scepticism—that may produce the +artist or may produce the criminal."</p> +<p>"But you believe that the creature of temperament—of +egoism and originality—may spring up in a lawful atmosphere +as well as in a lawless one?" The question came softly. Max had +ceased to look about him, ceased to observe the streets that grew +more crowded, more brightly lighted as they made their downward +way.</p> +<p>Blake smiled. "The tares among the wheat, eh?"</p> +<p>"Yes."</p> +<p>"Oh, of course I admit the tares among the wheat; but such +growths are mostly unsatisfactory. Forced fruit is never precisely +the same as wild fruit."</p> +<p>"Why not?"</p> +<p>"Because, my boy, there is a self-consciousness about all forced +things, and the hallmark of the Bohemian is an absolute +ingenuousness."</p> +<p>"But to return to your example. Suppose the tare among the wheat +had always recognized itself—had always craved to be a tare +with other tares—until at length its roots spread and spread +and passed beyond the boundary of the wheat-field! Why should it +not flourish and lift its head among the weeds?"</p> +<p>"Because, boy, it would have its traditions. It might live +forever among the weeds, it might flourish and reign over them, but +it would have a reminiscence unknown to them—the knowledge of +the years in which it strove to mold itself to the likeness of the +wheat before rebellion woke within it. I know! I know! I know +Bohemia—love Bohemia—but at best I am only a +naturalized Bohemian. I can live on a crust with these good +creatures, or I can send my gold flying with theirs, but I'm hanged +if, for instance, I can sin in quite the delicious, child-like, +whole-hearted way that is their prerogative! I have done most of +the things that they have done, but their disarming candor, their +simple joy in their exploits, is something debarred to me. It isn't +for nothing, I tell you, that I have countless God-fearing +generations behind me!"</p> +<p>He spoke jestingly, but his glance, when it met the eager +impetuosity of the boy's, was quiet and observant.</p> +<p>"I disagree with you!" Max cried, suddenly. "I disagree with you +wholly! Individuality has nothing to do with +environment—nothing to do with ancestry."</p> +<p>"Ah, that's not logical! Humanity is only a chain of which we +are the last links forged. I have had my own delusions, when I sent +the ideal to the right-about and made realism my god, but as time +has gone on my theories have gone back on me, and tradition has +come into its own, until now I see the skeleton in every beautiful +body, and the heart of me craves something behind even the +bones—the soul of the creature."</p> +<p>"But that is different, because your desire and your theory have +been the common desire and theory—the things that burn +themselves out. My theory is not of the body, it is of the mind. I +only contend that in all the greater concerns of life I am a being +perfectly competent to stand alone."</p> +<p>"My dear boy, by the mercy of God all the ideas of youth are +reversible! My fire has been extinguished; your ice will hold until +the sun is in the zenith, and not one moment longer."</p> +<p>"I deny it! I deny it!"</p> +<p>He spoke with a fine defiance. He paused, the more convincingly +to express himself; but even as he paused, his eyes and his mind +were suddenly opened to a fresh impression, were lured from the +moment of gravity, caught and held by the lights and crowds into +which they had abruptly emerged—lights and crowds through +which the pervading sense of a pleasure-chase stole like a scent +borne on a breeze.</p> +<p>"Where are we?" he said, sharply. "What place is this?"</p> +<p>"The Boulevard de Clichy. Come, boy! Discussions are over. The +curtain is up; the play is on!" Without apology, Blake caught his +shoulder and swung him out into the roadway, as he had swung him +across the Esplanade des Invalides that morning. "Come! I'm going +to insist upon a new medicine; my first prescription was not the +right one. You're too theoretical to-night for a place of +traditions. We'll shelve our little <i>cabaret</i> till some hour +when genius burns, and instead I'll plunge you straight into common +frivolity, as though you were some Cockney tourist getting his +week-end's worth! Have you ever heard of the Bal Tabarin?"</p> +<p>"Never. And I would much—- much rather—"</p> +<p>"No, you wouldn't! I have spoken. Come along!"</p> +<p>Before Max could resist he was swept across the wide roadway, +round a corner, and through what looked to him like the entrance to +a theatre.</p> +<p>There were many people gathered about this entrance: men in +evening dress, men in shabby, insignificant clothes, women in +varying types of costume. Max would have lingered to study the +little crowd, but Blake looked upon his hesitancy with distrust, +and still retaining the grip upon his shoulder, half led, half +pushed him through a short passage straight into the dancing-hall, +where on the instant his ears were assailed by a flood of joyous +sound in the form of a rhythmic, swinging waltz—his eyes +blinked before the flood of light to which the Parisian pins his +faith for public pleasures—and his nostrils were assailed by +a penetrating smell of scent and smoke. Dazed and a little +frightened he drew back against a wall, overwhelmed by the +atmosphere. Superficially there was little astonishing in the Bal +Tabarin; but to the uninitiated being with wide eyes it seemed in +very truth the gay world, with its stirring music, its walls +flaunting their mirrors and their paintings, its galleries with +their palms and railed-in boxes, and beneath—subtly +suggestive adjunct—- the bars, with their countless bottles +of champagne, bottles of every conceivable size built up in serried +rows as though Venus would raise an altar to Bacchus.</p> +<p>Leaning back against the wall, Max surveyed the scene, +fascinated and confused. A thousand questions rose to his lips, but +not one found utterance. Again and yet again his bright glance +ranged from the gay red of the bandsmen's coats to the lines of +spectators sitting at the little tables under the galleries, +returning inevitably and persistently to the pivot of the +scene—a space of pale-colored, waxed floor in the centre of +the hall, where innumerable couples whirled or glided to the tune +of the waltz.</p> +<p>He had seen many a ball in progress, but never had he seen +dancing as he saw it here, where grace rubbed shoulders with +absolute <i>gaucherie</i>, and wild hilarity mingled unashamed with +a curious seriousness—one had almost said iciness—of +demeanor. The women, who formed the definite interest of the +picture, were for the most part young, with a youth that lent +slimness and suppleness to the figure and permeated through the +freely used paint and powder like some unpurchasable essence. Among +this crowd of women some were fair, some brown, a few red-haired, +but the vast majority belonged to the type that was to become +familiar to Max as the true <i>Montmartroise</i>—the girl +possessed of the dead white face, the red, sensual lips, the +imperfectly chiselled nose, attractive in its very imperfection, +and the eyes—black, brown, or gray—that see in a single +glance to the bottom of a man's soul. Richness of apparel was not +conspicuous among them, but all wore their clothes with the sense +of fitness that possesses the <i>Parisienne</i>. Each head was held +at the angle that best displayed the well-dressed hair and cleverly +trimmed hat; each light skirt was held waist-high with a dexterity +that allowed the elaborate petticoat to sweep out from the neat +ankles in a whirl of lace.</p> +<p>Some of these girls danced with pleasure-seeking young +Englishmen or Americans in conventional evening dress, others with +little clerks in ill-fitting clothes and bowler hats, while many +chose each other for partners, and glided over the waxed floor in a +perfection of motion difficult to excel.</p> +<p>Leaning back against the wall, he watched the picture, gaining +courage with familiarity, and unconsciously a little gasp of regret +parted his lips as the waltz crashed to a finish and the dancers +moved in a body toward the tables and the bars. Then for the first +time he remembered Blake, and, looking round, saw his green eyes +fixed upon him in a quizzical, satirical glance.</p> +<p>"Well, the devil has a pleasant way with him, there's no denying +it! Come and find a seat! The next will be one of the special +dances—a <i>can-can</i> or a Spanish dance. I'd like you to +see it."</p> +<p>"Who will dance it?"</p> +<p>"Who? Oh, probably, if it's the <i>can-can,</i> half a dozen of +the best-looking of those girls with the elaborate <i>lingerie</i>. +They're paid to dance here. They're part of the show."</p> +<p>"I see!" Max was interested, but his voice did not sound very +certain. "And the others?" he added. "That fair girl, for example, +sitting at the table with the hideous, untidy little man in the +brown suit?"</p> +<p>Blake's eyes sought out the couple. "What! The two smiling into +each other's eyes? Those, my boy, are true citizens of the true +Bohemia. She is probably a little dressmaker's assistant, whose +whole available capital is sunk in that Pierrot hat and those +pretty shoes; and he—well, he might be anything with that +queer, clever head! But he's probably a poet, in the guise of a +journalist, picking up a few francs when he can and where he can. A +precarious existence, but lived in Elysium! Wish I were +twenty—and unanalytical! Come along! It's to be a Spanish +dance. You mustn't miss it!"</p> +<p>They made their way forward, pushing toward the open space, upon +which a shaft of limelight had been thrown, the better to display +the faces and figures of eight Spanish women who, dressed in their +national costume, stood preening themselves like vain birds, +tossing their heads and showing their white teeth in sudden smiles +of recognition to their friends among the audience. While Max's +interested eyes were travelling from one face to another, the +signal was given, and with an electric spontaneity the dance began. +It was a wonderful dance—a dance of sensuous contortion +crossed and arrested at every moment by the fierce flash of pride, +the swift gesture of contempt indicative of the land that had +conceived it—a dance that would diminish to the merest sway +of the body accompanied by the slow, hypnotic enticement of +half-closed eyes, and then, as a fan might shut or open, leap back +in an instant to a barbaric frenzy of motion in which loosened hair +and flaming draperies carried the beholder's senses upon a tide of +intoxication.</p> +<p>Max was conscious of quickened heart-beats and flushed cheeks as +the dancers paused and the high, shrill call that indicated an +encore pierced through the smoke-laden air; and without question he +turned and followed Blake to one of the many tables standing in the +shadow of the galleries.</p> +<p>The table was packed tightly between other tables, and in the +moment of intoxication he had no glance to spare for his neighbors. +Even Blake's voice when it came to him sounded far away and +impersonal.</p> +<p>"Sit down, boy! What will you drink?"</p> +<p>"What you drink, <i>mon ami</i>, I will drink."</p> +<p>He sat down and, with a new exuberance, threw himself back in +his seat. It was a moment of bravado that reckoned not at all with +circumstance; his gesture was imperiously reckless, the space about +him was crowded to suffocation; by a natural sequence of events his +head came into sharp contact with the waving plumes of a hat at the +table behind him.</p> +<p>With volubility and dispatch the owner of the hat expressed her +opinion of his awkwardness; one or two people near them laughed, +and, flushing a desperate red, he turned, raised his hat, and +offered an apology.</p> +<p>The possessor of the feathers was a woman of thirty who looked +ten years older than her age; her face was unhealthily pale even +beneath its mask of powder, and her eyes were curiously lifeless, +but her clothes were costly and her figure fine, if a trifle +robust. At sound of the boy's voice she turned. Her movement was +slow and deliberate; her gaze, in which a dull resentment +smouldered, passed over his confused, flushed face, and rested upon +Blake's; then a light, if light it might be called, glimmered in +her eyes, and her immobile face relaxed into a smile.</p> +<p>"'<i>Allo, mon cher</i>! But I thought you had dropped out of +life!"</p> +<p>The boy, with a startled movement, turned his eyes on Blake; but +Blake was smiling at the woman with the same pleasant +smile—half humorous, half satirical—that he had +bestowed dispassionately upon the young Englishman in the train the +night before, and upon the little <i>café</i> proprietress +of the rue Fabert—the smile that all his life had been a +passport to the world's byways.</p> +<p>"What! you, Lize!" he was saying easily, and with only the +faintest shadow of surprise. "Well, if I have been dead, I am now +resurrected! Let's toast old times, since you are alone. +<i>Garçon! Garçon!</i>"</p> +<p>Out of the crowd a waiter answered his call. Wine was brought, +three glasses were brought and filled, while Max watched the +performance—watched the ease and naturalness of it with +absorbed wonder.</p> +<p>"Lize," said Blake, as the waiter disappeared, "my friend who +dared to interfere with that marvellous hat is called Max. Won't +you smile upon him?"</p> +<p>Max blushed again, he could not have told why, and the lady +smiled—a vague, detached smile.</p> +<p>"A pretty boy!" she said. "He ought to have been a woman." Then, +sensible of having discharged her duty, she turned again to +Blake.</p> +<p>"And the world, <i>mon cher</i>? It has been kind to you?"</p> +<p>Blake laughed and drank some of his wine. "Oh, I can't complain! +If it isn't quite the same world that it was, the fault's in me. +I'm getting old, Lize! Eight-and-thirty come next March!"</p> +<p>A palpable chill touched the woman; she shivered, then laughed a +little hysterically, and finished her wine.</p> +<p>"Ssh! Ssh! Don't say such things!"</p> +<p>Blake refilled her glass. "I was jesting. A man is as old as he +feels; a woman—" He lifted his own glass and smiled into her +eyes with a certain kindliness of understanding. "Come, Lize! The +old times aren't so far behind us! 'Twas only yesterday that +Jacques Aujet painted you as the Bacchante in his 'Masque of +Folly.' Do you remember how angry you were when he used to kiss +you, and the grape juice used to run into your hair and down your +neck? Why, 'twas hardly yesterday!"</p> +<p>The woman looked down, and for a moment a shadow seemed to rest +upon her—a something tangible and even fearful, that lent to +her mask-like face a momentary humanity.</p> +<p>"<i>Mon ami</i>," she said, in a toneless voice, "do you +remember that Jacques is ten years dead?"</p> +<p>Then suddenly, as if fleeing from her own fear, she looked up +again, surfeiting her senses with the crowds, the lights, the smoke +and scent and crashing music.</p> +<p>"But what folly!" she cried. "Life goes on! The same round, is +it not so? Life and love and jealousy! Come, little monsieur, what +have you to say?"</p> +<p>She turned to Max, sitting silent and attentive; but even as she +turned, there was a flutter of interest among the tables behind +her, and a young girl ran up, laying her hand upon her arm.</p> +<p>"Lize!" she said, with a little gasp. "Lize! He is +here—and I am afraid."</p> +<p>Max looked up. It was the girl he had pointed out to Blake as +sitting at the table with the ugly, clever-looking man; and his +eyes opened wide in fresh surprise, fresh interest as he studied +the details of her appearance. She was of that most attractive +type, the fair <i>Parisienne</i>; her complexion was of wax-like +paleness, her blonde hair broke into little waves and tendrils +under her Pierrot hat, while her eyes, clear and blue, proclaimed +her extreme youth. As she stood now, clinging to the elder woman's +arm, her mind showed itself in an utter naturalness, an utter +disregard of the fact that she was observed. Max remembered Blake's +words—"These are true citizens of the true Bohemia."</p> +<p>But the woman Lize had turned at her cry, and laid a plump, +jewelled hand over her slim, nervous fingers.</p> +<p>"Jacqueline! My child, what is wrong?"</p> +<p>"He is here! And Lucien is here! And I am afraid!"</p> +<p>The words were vague, but the elder woman asked for no +explanation.</p> +<p>"Does Lucien know?"</p> +<p>The girl shook her head.</p> +<p>"And this beast—where is he?"</p> +<p>The girl, silent from emotional excitement, nodded toward the +opposite bar, and a light flickered up into Lize's eyes as she +scanned the crowd divided from them by the space of waxed floor, +from which the Spanish dancers had just retreated.</p> +<p>Max raised his glass and drank some of his champagne. His first +dread of the place was gripping him again—exciting him, +confusing him. All about him, like the scent-laden atmosphere +itself, moved the crowd—the girls of Montmartre and their +cavaliers. Everywhere was that sense of conscious +enjoyment—that grasping of the mere moment that the Parisian +has reduced to a science. It enveloped him like a veil—the +artless artificiality of Paris! Everywhere fans emblazoned with the +words Bal Tabarin fluttered like butterflies, everywhere cigar +smoke mingled with the essences from the women's clothes, but +beneath it all lurked a something unanalyzed, dimly understood, +that chained his imagination. It hung about him; it crouched behind +the women's expectant eyes; then suddenly it sprang forth like an +ugly beast into a perfumed garden.</p> +<p>It came in a moment: a little scuffle at the bar opposite, as a +heavy, fair-bearded man disengaged himself from the crowd about +him, a little flutter of interest as he made an unsteady way across +the waxed floor, a little smothered scream from the girl as he +lurched up to the table and paused, gazing at her with angry, +bloodshot eyes.</p> +<p>For a second of silence the two looked at each other—the +girl with a frightened, fascinated gaze, the man with the slow +insolence that drink induces. At last, muttering some words in a +guttural tongue unknown to the boy, he swayed forward and laid a +heavy red hand upon her shoulder.</p> +<p>The gesture was brutal, masterful, expressive. A sense of mental +sickness seized upon Max; while the woman Lize suddenly braced +herself, changing from the inert, half-hypnotized creature of a +moment before into a being of fury.</p> +<p>"<i>Sapristi</i>!" she cried aloud. "A pretty lover to come +wooing!" And she added a phrase that had never found place in Max's +vocabulary, and at which the surrounding people laughed.</p> +<p>The words and the laugh were tow to the fire of the man's rage. +He freed the girl's arm and struck the table with a resounding +violence that made the glasses dance.</p> +<p>It was the signal for a scene. In a second people at the +neighboring tables rose to their feet, chairs were overturned, a +torrent of words poured forth from both actors and spectators, +while through everything and above everything the band poured forth +an intoxicating waltz.</p> +<p>Max, forgetful of himself, stood with wide eyes and white, +absorbed face. He saw the climax of the scene—saw the bearded +man lean across the table and seize the girl by the +waist—saw, to his breathless amazement, the woman Lize +suddenly grasp the champagne bottle and fling it full into his +face; then, abruptly, out of the maze of sensations, he felt some +one grip him by the shoulder and march him straight through the +crowd, into the vestibule, on into the open air.</p> +<p>Outside, in the glare of the lights, in the cold fresh air of +the street, he turned, white and shaking, upon Blake.</p> +<p>"Why did you do it?" he demanded. "I think you were a coward! I +would not have run away!"</p> +<p>Blake laughed, though his own voice was a little uneven, his own +face looked a little pale. "There are some battle-fields, boy, +where discretion is obviously the better part of valor! I'm sorry I +brought you here, though they generally manage to avoid this sort +of thing."</p> +<p>Max still looked indignant.</p> +<p>"But she was a friend of yours!"</p> +<p>"A friend! My God!"</p> +<p>"But she called you her friend!"</p> +<p>"Friendship is a much-defaced coin that poverty-stricken +humanity will always pass! Our friendship, boy, consists in the +fact that she once loved and was loved by a man I knew. Poor Lize! +She had a bit too much heart for the game she played. And the heart +is there still, for all the paint and powder and morphine she +fights the world with! Poor Lize!"</p> +<p>Max's eyes were still wide, but the anger had died down.</p> +<p>"And the girl?" he questioned. "The girl, and the brute, and the +man with the clever head? What have they all to do with each other +and with her?"</p> +<p>Blake's lips parted to reply, but closed again.</p> +<p>"Never mind, boy!" he said, gently. "Come along back to your +hotel; you've seen enough life for one night."</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_X'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER X</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">WITH a new day began a new epoch. On the morning +following the night, of first adventure Max woke in his odd, +mountainous bed at the Hôtel Railleux kindling to fresh and +definite sensations. In a manner miraculously swift, miraculously +smooth and subtle, he had discovered a niche in this strange city, +and had elected to fit himself to it. A knowledge of present, a +pledge of future interests seemed to permeate the atmosphere, and +he rose and dressed with the grave deliberation of the being who +sees his way clear before him.</div> +<p>It was nine o'clock when he entered the +<i>salle-à-manger</i>, and one sharp glance brought the +satisfying conviction that it was deserted save for the presence of +the assiduous young waiter, who came hurrying forward as though no +span of hours and incidents separated yesterday's meal from +to-day's.</p> +<p>His attentive attitude was unrelaxed, his smile was as +deferential as before, but this morning he found a less responsive +guest. Max was filled with a quiet assurance that debarred +familiarity; Max, in fine, was bound upon a quest, and the +submissive young waiter, the bare eating-room, Paris itself, formed +but the setting and background in his arrogant young mind to the +greatness of the mission.</p> +<p>The thought—the small seed of thought that was responsible +for the idea had been sown last night, as he leaned over the +parapet fronting the Sacré-Coeur, looking down upon the city +with its tangle of lights; and later, in the hours of darkness, +when he had tossed on his heavy bed, too excited to lure sleep, it +had fructified with strange rapidity, growing and blossoming with +morning into definite resolve.</p> +<p>He drank his coffee and ate his roll in happy preoccupation, +and, having finished his meal, left the room and went quietly down +the stairs and through the glass door of the hotel.</p> +<p>The frost still held; Paris still smiled; and, buttoning up his +coat, he paused for a moment on the doorstep to turn his face to +the copper-red sun and breathe in the crisp, invigorating air; +then, with a quaintly decisive manner that seemed to set sentiment +aside, he walked to the edge of the footpath and hailed a passing +<i>fiacre</i>.</p> +<p>"To the church of the Sacré-Coeur," he commanded.</p> +<p>The <i>cocher</i> received the order with a grumble, looked from +his unreliable horse to the frosty roadway, and was about to shake +his head in definite negation when Max cajoled him with a more +ingratiating voice.</p> +<p>"The rue Ronsard, then? Will you take me to the corner of the +rue Ronsard?"</p> +<p>The man grumbled again, and shrugged his shoulders until his +ears disappeared in the shaggy depths of his fur cape; but, when +all hope seemed fled, he laconically murmured the one word +"<i>Bon!</i>" whipped up his horse, and started off with a fine +disregard of whether his fare had taken his seat or been left +behind upon the footpath.</p> +<p>To those who know Montmartre only as an abode of night—a +place of light and laughter and folly—Montmartre in the day, +Montmartre at half-past nine in the morning, comes as a revelation. +The whole picture is as a coin reversed. The theatres, the +music-halls, the <i>cabarets</i> all lie with closed eyes, +innocently sleeping; the population of pleasure-seekers and +pleasure-mongers has disappeared as completely as if some magician +had waved his wand, and in its place the streets teem with the +worker—the early, industrious shopkeeper and the householder +bent upon a profitable morning's marketing. Max, gazing from the +<i>fiacre</i> with attentive eyes, followed the varying scenes, +while his horse wound a careful and laborious way up the +cobble-paved streets, and noted with an artist's eye the black, +hurrying figures of the men, cloaked and hooded against the cold, +and the black, homely figures of the women, silhouetted against the +sharp greens and yellows of the laden vegetable stalls at which +they chattered and bargained.</p> +<p>It was all noisy, interesting, alive; and us he watched the +pleasant, changing pictures, his courage strengthened, his belief +in his own star mounted higher; the decision of last night stood +out, as so few nocturnal decisions can stand out, unashamed and +justified in the light of day.</p> +<p>At the corner where the rue André de Sarte joins the rue +Ronsard he dismissed his cab, and with a young inquisitiveness in +all that concerned the quarter, paused to look into the old curio +shop, no longer closed as on the previous night, but open and +inviting in its dingy suggestion of mysteries unsolved.</p> +<p>Now—at this moment of recording the boy's doings—the +curio shop no longer exists at the corner of the rue André +de Sarte; it has faded into the unknown with its coppers and +brasses, its silver and tinsel, its woollen and silk stuffs; but on +that January morning of his first coming it still held place, its +musty perfumes still conjured dreams, its open doorway, festooned +with antique objects, still offered tempting glimpses into the long +and dim interior, where an old Jew, presiding genius of the place, +lurked like a spider in the innermost circle of his web.</p> +<p>Max lingered, drawn into self-forgetfulness by the blending of +faded hues, the atmosphere of must and spices, the air of age +indescribable that veiled the place. He loitered about the windows, +peeped in at the doorway, would even have ventured across the +threshold had not a ponderous figure, rising silently from a heap +of cushions upon the floor of the inmost room, sent him hastening +round the corner, guiltily conscious that it was new lamps and not +old he was here to light.</p> +<p>The interest of his mission flowed back, sharpened by the +momentary break, and it was with very swift steps that he ran up +the Escalier de Sainte-Marie to the rue Müller; there, in the +rue Müller, he paused, his back to the green plantation, his +face to the row of houses rising one above the other, each with its +open doorway, each with its front of brick and plaster, its iron +balcony from which hung the inevitable array of blankets, rugs, and +mattresses absorbing the morning air.</p> +<p>To say that, in the mystic silence of the previous night and +restless hours of the dawn, Max had vowed to himself that here in +the rue Müller he would make a home, and to add that, coming +in the light of day, he found a door open to him, sounds at the +least fabulous; yet, as he stood there—eager, alert, with +face lifted expectantly, and bright gaze winging to right and +left—fable was made fact: the legend '<i>Appartement à +louer</i>' caught his glance like a pronouncement of fate.</p> +<p>It sounds fabulous, it sounds preposterous, and yet it obtains, +to be accounted for only by the fact that in this curious world +there are certain beings to whom it is given to say of all things +with naïve faith, not 'I shall seek,' but 'I shall find.'</p> +<p>Max had never doubted that, if courage were high enough to +undertake the quest, absolute success awaited him. He read the +legend again, '<i>Appartement à louer 5ième +étage. Gaz: l'eau,'</i> and without hesitation crossed the +rue Müller and passed through the open door.</p> +<p>The difference was vast between his nervous entry thirty-six +hours ago into the Hôtel Railleux and the boldness of his +step now. The difference between secret night and candid morning +lay in the two proceedings—the difference between +self-distrust and self-confidence. Then he had been a creature +newly created, looking upon himself and all the world with a +sensitive distrust; now he was an individual accepted of others, +assured of himself, already beginning to move and have his being in +happy self-forgetfulness.</p> +<p>He stepped into the hallway of the strange house and paused to +look about him, his only emotion a keen interest that kept every +nerve alert. The hallway round which he looked displayed no +original features: it was a lofty, rather narrow space, the walls +of which—painted to resemble marble—were defaced by +time, by the passing of many skirts and the rubbing of many +shoulders. In the rear was a second door, composed of glass, and +beyond it the suggestion of a staircase of polished oak that sprang +upward from the dingy floor in a surprising beauty of panelled dado +and fine old banister.</p> +<p>Max's eyes rested upon this staircase: in renewed excitement he +hurried down the hall and, regardless of the consequence, beat a +quick tattoo with his knuckles upon the glass door.</p> +<p>Silence greeted his imperative summons, and as he waited, +listening intently, he became aware of the monotonous hum of a +sewing-machine coming through a closed door upon his left.</p> +<p>The knowledge of a human presence emboldened him; again he +knocked, this time more sharply, more persistently. Again +inattention; then, as he lifted his hand for the third time, the +hum of the machine ceased abruptly, the door opened, and he turned +to confront a small woman with wispy hair and untidy clothes, whose +bodice was adorned with innumerable pins, and at whose side hung a +pair of scissors large as shears.</p> +<p>"Monsieur?" Her manner was curt—the manner of one who has +been disturbed at some engrossing occupation.</p> +<p>Max felt rebuffed; he raised his hat and bowed with as close an +imitation as he could summon of Blake's ingratiating +friendliness.</p> +<p>"Madame, you have an <i>appartement</i> to let?"</p> +<p>"True, monsieur! An <i>appartement</i> on the fifth +floor—gas and water." There was pride in the last words, if a +grudging pride.</p> +<p>"Precisely! And it is a good <i>appartement</i>?"</p> +<p>"No better in Montmartre."</p> +<p>"A sufficiency of light?"</p> +<p>'Light?' The woman smiled in scorn. 'Was it not open to the +skies—with those two windows in front, and that balcony?'</p> +<p>Max's excitement kindled.</p> +<p>"Madame, I must see this <i>appartement</i>! May I mount +now—at once?"</p> +<p>But the matter was no such light one. Madame shook her head. +'Ah, that was not possible!'</p> +<p>'Why not?'</p> +<p>'Ah, well, there was the <i>concierge</i>! The <i>concierge</i> +was out.'</p> +<p>'But the <i>concierge</i> would return?'</p> +<p>'Oh yes! It was true he would return!'</p> +<p>The little woman cast a wistful eye on the door of her own +room.</p> +<p>'At what hour?'</p> +<p>'Ah! That was a question!'</p> +<p>'This morning?'</p> +<p>'Possibly!'</p> +<p>'This afternoon?'</p> +<p>'Possibly!'</p> +<p>'But not for a certainty?'</p> +<p>'Nothing was entirely certain.'</p> +<p>Anger broke through Max's disappointment. Without a word he +turned on his heel and strode down the hall with the air of an +offended prince.</p> +<p>The woman watched him with an expressionless face until he +reached the door, then something—perhaps his youth, perhaps +his brave carriage, perhaps his defiant disappointment—moved +her.</p> +<p>"Monsieur!" she called.</p> +<p>He stopped.</p> +<p>"Monsieur, if it is absolutely necessary that you see the +<i>appartement</i>—"</p> +<p>"It is. Absolutely necessary." Max ran back.</p> +<p>"Then, monsieur, I will conduct you up-stairs."</p> +<p>The suggestion was greedily seized upon. This <i>appartement</i> +on the fifth floor had grown in value with each moment of +denial.</p> +<p>"Thank you, madame, a thousand times!"</p> +<p>"Shall we mount?"</p> +<p>"On the moment, if you will."</p> +<p>Through the glass door they went, and up the stairs, mounting +higher and ever higher in an unbroken silence. Half way up each +flight of stairs there was a window through which the light fell +upon the bare oak steps, proving them to be spotless and polished +as the floor of a convent. It was an unexpected quality, this rigid +cleanliness, and the boy acknowledged it with a mute and deep +satisfaction.</p> +<p>Upon each landing were two doors—closed doors that +sturdily guarded whatever of secrecy might lie behind, and at each +of these silent portals Max glanced with that intent and searching +look that one bestows upon objects that promise to become +intertwined with one's daily life. At last the ascent was made, the +goal reached, and he paused on the last step of the stairs to +survey the coveted fifth floor.</p> +<p>It was as bare, as scrupulously clean as were the other +landings; but his quick glance noted that while the door upon the +left was plain and unadorned as the others he had passed, that upon +the right bore a small brass plate engraved with the name 'L. +Salas.'</p> +<p>This, then, was his possible neighbor! He scanned the name +attentively.</p> +<p>"This is the fifth floor, madame?"</p> +<p>"The fifth floor, monsieur!" Without ceremony the little woman +went forward and, to his astonishment, rapped sharply upon the door +with the brass plate.</p> +<p>Max started. "Madame! The <i>appartement</i> is not +occupied?"</p> +<p>The only reply that came to him was the opening of the door by +an inch or two and the hissing whisper of a conversation of which +he caught no word. Then the lady of the scissors looked round upon +him, and the door closed.</p> +<p>"One moment, monsieur, while madame throws on a garment!"</p> +<p>A sudden loss of nerve, a sudden desire for flight seized upon +Max. He had mounted the stairs anticipating the viewing of empty +rooms, and now he was confronted with a furnished and inhabited +<i>appartement</i>, and commanded to wait 'while madame threw on a +garment'! A hundred speculations crowded to his mind. Into what +<i>milieu</i> was he about to be hurled? What sordid morning scene +was he about to witness? In a strange confusion of ideas, the white +face of the woman Lize sprang to his imagination, coupled with the +memory of the empty champagne bottle and the battered tray of the +first night at the Hôtel Railleux. A deadly sensitiveness +oppressed him; he turned sharply to his guide.</p> +<p>"Madame! Madame! It is an altogether unreasonable hour to +intrude—"</p> +<p>The reopening of the door on the right checked him, and a gentle +voice broke across his words:</p> +<p>"Now, madame, if you will!"</p> +<p>He turned, his heart still beating quickly, and a sudden shame +at his own thoughts—a sudden relief so strong as almost to be +painful—surged through him.</p> +<p>The open door revealed a woman of forty-five, perhaps of fifty, +clothed in a meagre black skirt and a plain linen wrapper of +exquisite cleanliness. It was this cleanliness that struck the note +of her personality—that fitted her as a garment, accentuating +the quiet austerity of her thin figure, the streaks of gray in her +brown hair, the pale face marked with suffering and sympathy and +repression.</p> +<p>With an instinctive deference the boy bared his head.</p> +<p>"Madame," he stammered, "I apologize profoundly for my intrusion +at such an hour."</p> +<p>"Do not apologize, monsieur. Enter, if you will!" She drew back, +smiling a little, and making him welcome by a simple gesture. "We +are anxious, I assure you, to find a tenant for the +<i>appartement</i>; my husband's health is not what it was, and we +find it necessary to move into the country."</p> +<p>He followed her into a tiny hall; and with her fingers on the +handle of an inner door, she looked at him again in her gentle, +self-possessed way.</p> +<p>"You will excuse my husband, monsieur! He is an invalid and +cannot rise from his chair."</p> +<p>She opened the inner door, and Max found himself in a bedroom, +plain in furniture and without adornment, but possessing a large +window, the full light from which was falling with pathetic +vividness on the shrunken figure and wan, expressionless face of a +very old man who sat huddled in a shabby leathern arm-chair. This +arm-chair had been drawn to the window to catch the wintry sun, and +pathos unspeakable lay in the contrasts of the picture—the +eternal youth in the cold, dancing beams—the waste, the +frailty of human things in the inert figure, the dim eyes, the +folded, twitching hands.</p> +<p>The old man looked up as the little party entered, and his eyes +sought his wife's with a mute, appealing glance; then, with a +slight confusion, he turned to Max, and his shaking hand went up +instinctively to the old black skullcap that covered his head.</p> +<p>"He wishes to greet you, monsieur, but he has not the strength." +The woman's voice dropped to tenderness, and she stooped and +arranged the rug about the shrunken knees. "If you will come this +way, I will show you the <i>salon</i>."</p> +<p>She moved quietly forward, opening a second door.</p> +<p>"You see, monsieur, it is all very convenient. In summer you can +throw the windows open and pass from one room to the other by way +of the balcony."</p> +<p>She moved from the bedroom into the <i>salon</i> as she spoke, +Max and the lady of the pins following.</p> +<p>"See, monsieur! It is quite a good room."</p> +<p>Max, still subdued by the vision of age, went forward silently, +but as he entered this second room irrepressible surprise possessed +him. Here was an atmosphere he had not anticipated. A soft, if +faded, carpet covered the floor; a fine old buffet stood against +the wall; antique carved chairs were drawn up to a massive table +that had obviously known more spacious surroundings; while upon the +walls, from floor to ceiling, were pictures—pictures of all +sizes, pictures obviously from the same hand, on the heavy gold +frames of which the name 'L. Salas' stood out conspicuously in +proof of former publicity.</p> +<p>"Madame!" He turned to the sad-faced woman, the enthusiasm of a +fellow-craftsman instantly kindled. "Madame! You are an artist? +This is your work?"</p> +<p>The woman caught the sympathy, caught the fire of interest, and +a faint flush warmed her cheek.</p> +<p>"Alas, no, monsieur! I am not artistic. It is my husband who is +the creator of these." She waved her hand proudly toward the walls. +"My husband is an artist."</p> +<p>"A renowned artist!"</p> +<p>It was the woman of the pins and scissors who spoke, surprising +Max, not by the sudden sound of her voice, but by her sudden warmth +of feeling. Again Blake's words came back—'These are the true +citizens of the true Bohemia!'—and he looked curiously from +one to the other of the women, so utterly apart in station, in +education, in ideals, yet bound by a common respect for art.</p> +<p>"It is my loss," he said, quietly, "that I did not, until +to-day, know of M. Salas."</p> +<p>"But no, monsieur! What would you know of twenty years ago? It +is true that then my husband had a reputation; but, alas, time +moves quickly—and the world is for the young!"</p> +<p>She smiled again, gently and patiently, and a sudden desire +seized Max to lift and kiss one of her thin, work-worn hands. The +whole pitiful story of a vogue outlived, of a generation pushed +aside, breathed in the silence of these fifth-floor rooms.</p> +<p>"They must be a great pride to you, madame—these +pictures."</p> +<p>"These, monsieur—and the fact that he is still with me. We +can dispense with anything save the being we love—is it not +so? But I must not detain you, talking of myself! The other rooms +are still to see! This, monsieur, is our second bedroom! And this +the kitchen!"</p> +<p>Max, following her obediently, took one peep into what was +evidently her own bedroom—a tiny apartment of rigid +simplicity, in which a narrow bed, with a large black crucifix +hanging above it, seemed the only furniture, and passed on into the +kitchen, a room scarce larger than a cupboard, in which a gas-stove +and a water-tap promised future utility.</p> +<p>"See, monsieur! Everything is very convenient. All things are +close at hand for cooking, and the light is good. And now, perhaps, +you would wish to pass back into the <i>salon</i> and step out upon +the balcony?"</p> +<p>Still silent, still preoccupied, he assented, and they passed +into the room so eloquent of past hours and dwindled fortunes.</p> +<p>"See, monsieur! The view is wonderful! Not to-day, perhaps, for +the frost blurs the distances; but in the spring—a little +later in the year—"</p> +<p>Crossing the room, she opened the long French window and stepped +out upon the narrow iron balcony.</p> +<p>Max followed, and, moving to her side, stood gazing down upon +the city of his dreams. For long he stood absorbed in thought, then +he turned and looked frankly into her face.</p> +<p>"Madame," he said, softly, "it is a place of miracle. It is here +that I shall live."</p> +<p>She smiled. She had served an apprenticeship in the reading of +the artist's heart—the child's heart.</p> +<p>"Yes, monsieur? You will live here?"</p> +<p>"As soon, madame, as it suits you to vacate the +<i>appartement</i>."</p> +<p>Again she smiled, gently, indulgently. "And may I ask, monsieur, +whether you have ascertained the figure of the rent?"</p> +<p>"No, madame."</p> +<p>"And is not that—pardon me!—a little +improvident?"</p> +<p>Max laughed. "Probably, madame! But if it demanded my last franc +I would give that last franc with an open heart, so greatly do I +desire the place."</p> +<p>The quiet eyes of the woman softened to a gentle +comprehension.</p> +<p>"You are an artist, monsieur."</p> +<p>The color leaped into the boy's face, his eyes flashed with +triumph.</p> +<p>"Madame, how did you guess?"</p> +<p>"It is no guessing, monsieur. You tell me with every word."</p> +<p>"Ah, madame, I thank you!" With a charming, swift grace he bent +and caught her hand. "And, madame"—he hesitated naïvely +and colored again. "Madame, I would like to say that when my home +is here it will be my care never to desecrate the atmosphere you +have created." He bent still lower, the sun caressing his crisp, +dark hair, and very lightly his lips touched her fingers.</p> +<p>"<i>Adieu</i>, madame!"</p> +<p>"<i>Adieu</i>, monsieur!"</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_XI'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">IT seemed to Max, as the door closed behind him +and he found himself upon the bare landing, that he had dreamed and +was awake again; for in truth the <i>ménage</i> into which +he had been permitted to peep seemed more the fabric of a dream +than part of the new, inconsequent life he had elected to make his +own. A curious halo of the ideal—of things set above the +corroding touch of time or fortune—surrounded the old man +forgotten of his world, and the patient wife, content in her one +frail possession.</div> +<p>He felt without comprehending that here was some precious +essence, some elixir of life, secret as it was priceless; and for +an instant a shadow, a doubt, a question crossed his happy egoism. +But the sharp, inquisitive voice of his guide brought him back to +material things.</p> +<p>"You like the <i>appartement</i>, monsieur?"</p> +<p>He threw aside his disturbing thoughts.</p> +<p>"Undoubtedly, madame!" he said, quickly. "It is here that I +shall live." Without conscious intention he used the phrase that he +had used to Blake—that he had used to Madame Salas.</p> +<p>"You are quick of decision, monsieur?"</p> +<p>"It is well, at least, to know one's own mind, madame! And now +tell me who I shall have for my neighbor." As they moved toward the +head of the stairs, he indicated the second door on the +landing—the door innocent of name, bell, or knocker.</p> +<p>"For neighbor, monsieur? Ah, I comprehend! That is the +<i>appartement</i> of M. Lucien Cartel, a musician; but his playing +will not disturb you, for the walls are thick—and, in any +case, he is a good musician."</p> +<p>A conclusion, winged with excitement, formed itself in the mind +of Max.</p> +<p>"Madame!" he cried. "He plays the violin—this M. +Cartel?"</p> +<p>"Both violin and piano, monsieur. He has a great talent."</p> +<p>"And, madame, he played last night? He played last night between +the hours of ten and eleven?"</p> +<p>"He plays constantly, monsieur, but of last night I am not sure. +Last night was eventful for M. Cartel! Last night—But I speak +too much!"</p> +<p>She glanced at Max, obviously desiring the question that would +unloose her tongue. But Max was not alert for gossip, he was +listening instead to a faint sound, long drawn out and fine as a +silver thread, that was slipping through the crevices of M. +Cartel's door.</p> +<p>"Ah, there he goes!" interjected the little woman. "Always at +the music, whatever life brings!"</p> +<p>"And I am right! It was he who played last night. How +curious!"</p> +<p>The woman glanced up, memory quickening her expression.</p> +<p>"But, yes, monsieur, you are perfectly correct," she said. "M. +Cartel did play last night. I remember now. I was finishing the hem +of a black dress for Madame Dévet, of the rue des Abesses, +when my husband came in at eleven o'clock. He walked in, leaving +the door open—the door I came through this morning at your +knock—and he stood there, blowing upon his fingers, for it +was cold. 'Our good Cartel is in love, Marthe!' he said, laughing. +'He is making music like a bird in spring!' And then, monsieur, the +next thing was a great rush of feet down the stairs, and who should +come flying into the hallway but M. Cartel himself. He paused for +an instant, seeing our door open, and he, too, was laughing. 'What +a fellow that Charpentier is!' he cried to my husband. 'His +<i>Louise</i> has kept me until I am all but late for my +<i>rendezvous</i>!' And he ran out through the hall, singing as he +went. That was all I saw of M. Cartel until two o'clock this +morning, when some one knocked upon our door—"</p> +<p>But she was permitted to go no further. The silvery notes of the +violin had dwindled into silence, and Max abruptly remembered that +he had an appointment with Blake on the Boulevard des Italiens.</p> +<p>"You are very good, madame, but it is necessary that I go! When +can I see the <i>concierge</i>?"</p> +<p>"The <i>concierge</i>, monsieur, is my husband. He will be here +for a certainty at one o'clock."</p> +<p>"Good, madame! At one o'clock I shall return."</p> +<p>He smiled, nodded, and ran down the first flight of stairs; but +by the window at the half-landing he stopped and looked back.</p> +<p>"Madame, tell me something! What is the rent of the +<i>appartement</i>?"</p> +<p>"The rent? Two hundred and sixty francs the year."</p> +<p>"Two hundred and sixty francs the year!" His voice was perfectly +expressionless. Then, apparently without reason, he laughed aloud +and ran down-stairs.</p> +<p>The woman looked after him, half inquisitively, half in +bewilderment; then to herself, in the solitude of the landing, she +shook her head.</p> +<p>"An artist, for a certainty!" she said, aloud, and, turning, she +retraced her steps and knocked with her knuckles on the door of M. +Lucien Cartel.</p> +<p>Meanwhile, Max finished his descent of the stairs, his feet +gliding with pleasant ease down the polished oak steps, his hand +slipping smoothly down the polished banister. Already the joy of +the free life was singing in his veins, already in spirit he was an +inmate of this house of many histories. He darted across the hall, +picturing in imagination the last night's haste of M. Cartel of the +violin. What would he be like, this M. Cartel, when he came to know +him in the flesh? Fat and short and negligent of his figure? or +lean and pathetic, as though dinner was not a certainty on every +day of the seven? He laughed a little to himself light-heartedly, +and gained the street door with unnecessary, heedless +speed—gained it on the moment that another pedestrian, moving +swiftly as himself, entered, bringing him to a sharp consciousness +of the moment.</p> +<p>Incomer and outgoer each drew back a step, each laughed, each +tendered an apology.</p> +<p>"<i>Pardon</i>, monsieur!"</p> +<p>"<i>Pardon</i>, mademoiselle!"</p> +<p>Then simultaneously a flash of recognition leaped into both +faces.</p> +<p>"Why," cried the girl, "it is the little friend of the friend of +Lize! How droll to meet like this!"</p> +<p>Her candor of speech was disarming; reticence fled before her +smile, before her artless friendliness.</p> +<p>"What a strange chance!" said Max. "What brings you to the rue +Müller, mademoiselle?"</p> +<p>She smiled, and in her smile there was a little touch of +pride—an indefinite pride that glowed about her slender, +youthful person like an aura.</p> +<p>"Monsieur, I live in this house—now."</p> +<p>"Now?" Sudden curiosity fired him.</p> +<p>"Ah, you do not comprehend! Last night was sad, monsieur; +to-day—" She stopped.</p> +<p>"To-day, mademoiselle?"</p> +<p>For a second the clear, childish blue of her eyes flashed like a +glimpse of spring skies.</p> +<p>"It is too difficult, monsieur—the explanation. It is as I +say. Last night was dark; to-day the sun shines!" She laughed, +displaying the dazzling whiteness of her teeth. "And you, +monsieur?" she added, gayly. "You also live here in the rue +Müller? Yes? No?" She bent her head prettily, first to one +side, then to the other, as she put her questions.</p> +<p>"I hope to live here, mademoiselle."</p> +<p>"Ah! Then I wish you, too, the sunshine, monsieur! +Good-day!"</p> +<p>"Good-day, mademoiselle!"</p> +<p>It was over—the little encounter; she moved into the dark +hallway as light, as joyous, as inconsequent as a bird. And Max +passed out into the sharp, crisp air, sensible that the troubling +memories of the Bal Tarbarin had in some strange manner been +effaced—that inadvertently he had touched some source whence +the waters of life bubbled in eternal, crystal freshness.</p> +<p>In the rue Ronsard he found a disengaged cab, and in ten minutes +he was wheeling down into the heart of Paris. It was nearing the +hour of <i>déjeuner</i>, the boulevards were already +filling, and the cold, crisp air seemed to vibrate to the bustle of +hurrying human creatures seriously absorbed in the thought of +food.</p> +<p>He smiled to himself at this humorously grave homage offered up +so untiringly, so zealously to the appetite, as he made his way +between the long line of tables at the restaurant where he had +appointed to meet Blake. Like all else that appertains to the +Frenchman, its very frankness disarmed criticism or disgust. He +looked at the beaming faces, smiling up from the wide-spread +napkins in perfect accord with life, and again, involuntarily, he +smiled. It was essentially a good world, whatever the pessimists +might say!</p> +<p>From a side-table he heard his name called, and with an added +glow of pleasure, he turned, saw Blake, and made his way through +the closely ranged chairs and the throng of hurrying waiters.</p> +<p>"Well, boy! Dissipation suits you, it seems! You're looking +well. Just out of bed, I suppose?"</p> +<p>Max laughed. Words were brimming to his lips, until he knew not +how to speak.</p> +<p>"And now, what 'll you eat? I waited to order until you +came."</p> +<p>"I do not know that I can eat."</p> +<p>"God bless my soul, why not? Sit down!"</p> +<p>Max laughed again, dropped obediently into a chair, rested his +arms on the table, and looked full at Blake.</p> +<p>"May I speak?"</p> +<p>"From now till Doomsday! <i>Garçon</i>!"</p> +<p>But Max laid an impulsive hand upon his arm.</p> +<p>"Wait! Do not order for one moment! I must tell you!" He gave a +little gasp of excitement. "I have seen an <i>appartement</i> in +the rue Müller—an <i>appartement</i> with a charming +<i>salon</i> opening upon a balcony, a nice little bedroom, another +room with an excellent painting light, a kitchen with water and +gas, all—all for what do you imagine?"</p> +<p>"What in God's name are you raving about?" Blake laid down the +<i>menu</i> just handed to him.</p> +<p>Max paid not the slightest heed.</p> +<p>"All for two hundred and sixty francs the year! Figure it to +yourself! Two hundred and sixty francs the year! What one would pay +in a couple of days for a suite of hotel rooms! I am mad since I +have seen the place—quite mad!" He laughed again so excitedly +that the people at the neighboring table stared.</p> +<p>"I can subscribe to that!" said Blake, satirically.</p> +<p>"Listen! Listen! You have not heard; you have not understood. I +have found an <i>appartement</i> in the rue Müller, at +Montmartre—the <i>appartement</i> I had set my heart upon, +the place where I can live and paint and make my success!"</p> +<p>Blake stared at him in silence.</p> +<p>"Yes! Yes!" Max insisted. "And it is all quite settled. And you +are coming back with me to-day at one o'clock to interview the +<i>concierge</i>!"</p> +<p>Blake threw himself back in his chair. "I'm hanged if I am!"</p> +<p>Yesterday the boy would have drawn back upon the instant, +armored in his pride, but to-day his reply was to look direct into +Blake's face with fascinating audacity.</p> +<p>"Then you will leave me to contend alone against who can say +what villain—what <i>apache</i>?"</p> +<p>"It strikes me you are qualified to deal with any +<i>apache</i>."</p> +<p>"You are angry!"</p> +<p>"Angry! I should think not!"</p> +<p>"Oh yes, you are!" Max's eyes shone, his lips curled into +smiles.</p> +<p>"And why should I be angry? Because your silly little wings have +begun to sprout? I'm not such a fool, my boy! I knew well enough +you'd soon be flying alone."</p> +<p>Max clapped his hands. "Oh yes, you are! You are +angry—angry—angry! You are angry because I found my way +to Montmartre without you, and made a little discovery all by +myself! Is it not like a—" He stopped, laughed, reddened as +though he had made some slip, and then on the instant altered his +whole expression to one of appeal and contrition.</p> +<p>"<i>Mon ami</i>!"</p> +<p>Blake's reply was to pick up the <i>menu</i> and turn to the +attending waiter.</p> +<p>"Monsieur Ned!"</p> +<p>Blake glanced at him reluctantly, caught the softened look, and +laughed.</p> +<p>"You're a young scamp—and I suppose I'm a cross-grained +devil! But if I was angry, where's the wonder? A man doesn't pick +up a quaint little book on the <i>quais</i>, and look to have it +turning its own leaves!"</p> +<p>"But now? Now it is all forgiven? You will not cast away your +little book because—because the wind came and fluttered the +pages?"</p> +<p>Once again Max spoke softly, with the softness that broke so +alluringly across the reckless independence of look and +gesture.</p> +<p>A sudden consciousness of this fascination—a sudden +annoyance with himself that he should yield to it—touched +Blake.</p> +<p>"I can't go with you to Montmartre," he said, abruptly. "It's +McCutcheon's last day in Paris, and I promised to give him the +afternoon."</p> +<p>"Who? The long, spider man who disliked me?"</p> +<p>"A spider who weaves big webs, I can tell you! You ought to be +more respectful to your elders."</p> +<p>"And I ought to have a studio across the river? Oh, Monsieur +Ned, order some food, for the love of God! I am perishing of +hunger."</p> +<p>Blake ordered the <i>déjeuner</i>, and talked a great +deal upon indifferent subjects while they ate; but each felt +jarred, each felt disappointed, though neither could exactly have +said why. At last, with a certain relief, they finished their +coffee and made a way between the long lines of tables to the +door.</p> +<p>There they halted for a moment in mutual hesitation, and at last +the boy held out his hand.</p> +<p>"And now I must wish you good-bye! Shall I see you any +more?"</p> +<p>Blake seemed lost in thought; he took no notice of the proffered +hand.</p> +<p>"Are you going to drive or walk?" He put the question after a +considerable pause.</p> +<p>"I thought to drive, because—"</p> +<p>Without permitting him to complete the sentence Blake crossed +the footpath and hailed a passing cab.</p> +<p>"Come on! In you get!"</p> +<p>Max obeyed uncertainly, and as he took his seat a sudden fear of +loss crushed him—life became blank, the brightness of the sun +was eclipsed.</p> +<p>"Monsieur Ned!" he called. "Monsieur Ned! I shall see you +again?"</p> +<p>Blake was speaking to the <i>cocher</i>. 'Rue Ronsard!' he heard +him say. 'The corner of the rue André de Sarte!'</p> +<p>He leaned out of the window.</p> +<p>"Monsieur Ned! Monsieur Ned! I shall see you again? This is not +good-bye?"</p> +<p>Blake turned; he laid his hand on the door of the cab and +suddenly smiled his attractive, humorous smile.</p> +<p>"Little fool!" he said. "Didn't you know I was coming with +you?"</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='PART_II'></a> +<h2>PART II</h2> +<br> +<br> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_XII'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XII</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">FROM a distinctly precarious perch—one +foot on the back of a chair, the other on an oak chest—Blake +surveyed the unfurnished <i>salon</i> of the fifth-floor +<i>appartement</i>. His coat was off, in one dusty hand he held a +hammer, in the other a picture, while from between his lips +protruded a brass-headed nail.</div> +<p>"If I drive the nail here, boy, will you be satisfied? Upon my +word, it's the last place I'll try!" He spoke with what dignity and +distinctness he could command, but the effect was lost upon Max, +who, also dusty, also bearing upon his person the evidences of +manual labor, was crouching over a wood fire, intent upon the +contents of a brass coffee-pot.</p> +<p>"Max! Do you hear me?"</p> +<p>"No, I do not hear. Take the nail from your mouth."</p> +<p>"Take it for me! I haven't a hand."</p> +<p>Max left the coffee-pot with some reluctance, crossed the room, +and with the seriousness known only to the enthusiastic amateur in +house-furnishing, removed the nail from Blake's mouth.</p> +<p>"It is a shame! You will spoil your nice teeth."</p> +<p>"What is a tooth or two in such a cause! Have you a +handkerchief?"</p> +<p>"Yes."</p> +<p>"Then, for the love of God, wipe my forehead for me!"</p> +<p>Still without a smile, Max produced a handkerchief that had +obviously played the <i>rôle</i> of duster at an earlier hour +and, passing it over Blake's face, removed the dew of heat, leaving +in its place a long black streak.</p> +<p>"Thanks! I'm cooler now—though probably dirtier!"</p> +<p>"Dirtier! On the contrary, <i>mon ami</i>! You have the most +artistic scar of dust that makes you as interesting as a German +officer! Oh!" His voice rose to a cry of sharp distress, and he ran +back to the fire. "Oh, my coffee! My beautiful coffee! Oh, Ned, it +has over boiled!"</p> +<p>Blake eyed the havoc from his coign of vantage with a philosophy +tinged with triumph.</p> +<p>"Didn't I tell you that coffee-pot was a fraud the very first +day old Bluebeard tried to palm it off on us! You will never +distinguish between beauty and utility."</p> +<p>"Beauty is utility!" Max, in deep distress, was using the +much-taxed handkerchief to wipe the spilt coffee from the +hearth.</p> +<p>"Should be, my boy, but isn't! I say, give me that business to +see to!" Regardless of the picture still dangling from his hand, he +jumped to the ground and strode through a litter of papers, straw, +and packing-cases.</p> +<p>"Give me that rag!" He took the sopping handkerchief and flung +it into a distant corner. "A wisp of this straw is much more +useful—less beautiful, I admit!"</p> +<p>Max glanced up with wide eyes, extremely wistful and youthful in +expression. "I do not believe I care about either the use or the +beauty," he said, plaintively. "I only care that I am hungry and +that my coffee is lost."</p> +<p>"Hungry, boy? Why, bless my soul, you must be starving! What +time is it at all?" Blake pulled out his watch. "Eleven! And we've +been at this hard since eight! Hungry! I should think you are. Look +here! You just sit down!" He pushed aside the many objects that +encumbered the floor, and began impatiently to strip the packing +from a leather arm-chair.</p> +<p>Max laughed a little.</p> +<p>"But, <i>mon cher</i>, I prefer the ground—this nice warm +little corner close to the fire. One day I think I shall have two +cushions, like your Bluebeard of the curio shop, and sit all day +long with my legs crossed, imagining myself a Turk. Like this!" He +drew back against the wall, curling himself up with supple agility, +and smiled into his companion's eyes.</p> +<p>Blake looked down, half amused, half concerned.</p> +<p>"Poor little <i>gamin</i>! Tired and dirty and hungry. Just you +wait!" Nodding decisively, he crossed the room, opened the door +softly, and disappeared.</p> +<p>Left to himself, Max drew farther back into his warm corner and +clasped his hands about his knees. Max was enjoying himself. The +fact was patent in the lazy ease of his pose, in the smile that +hovered about his lips, in the slow, pleased glance that travelled +round and round the bare room and the furniture still standing +ghostly in its packing. It was still the joyful beginning of +things: the clean white paper upon the walls spoke of first hours +as audibly as the bunch of jonquils peeping from a dark corner +spoke of spring. It was still the beginning of things—the +salt before the sweet, the ineffable, priceless moment when life +seems malleable and to be bent to the heart's desire.</p> +<p>One month had passed since his first visit to this fifth floor; +one month since he had entered Paris, armored in his hopes; one +month since Blake had crossed his path.</p> +<p>The smile upon his lips deepened, then wavered to seriousness, +and his gaze turned from the white wall to the fire, where the +flames from the logs spurted copper and blue.</p> +<p>One month. A dream—or a lifetime?</p> +<p>Gazing into the fire, questioning his own fancy, he could scarce +decide which; a dream in the quick moving of events—the swift +viewing of new scenes; a lifetime in alteration of outlook and +environment—the severing and knitting of bonds.</p> +<p>The happy seriousness was still enfolding him, his eyes were +still intent upon the fire, when Blake entered, triumphant, +carrying a coffee-pot, and followed by a demure girl with blonde +hair and delicate pale skin.</p> +<p>"Monsieur is served!"</p> +<p>Max, startled out of his reverie, jumped to his feet.</p> +<p>"What is this? Oh, but you should not! You should not!"</p> +<p>"And why not, in the name of God? If you insist upon having +antique brass coffee-pots, your neighbors must expect to suffer, +eh, Jacqueline?"</p> +<p>The little Jacqueline laughed, shaking her fair head. "Ah, well, +monsieur, it is an art—the keeping of an +establishment—and must be learned like any other!"</p> +<p>"And you think we ought to go to school?"</p> +<p>"I did not say that!" She laid down the loaf of bread, the +butter, and the milk-jug that she was carrying, and took the coffee +from Blake's hands with an air of pretty gravity. "And now, +monsieur, where are the cups?"</p> +<p>Blake turned to Max. "Cups?" he said in English. "I know we +bought something quite unique in the matter of cups, but where the +deuce we put them—For the love of God and the honor of the +family, boy, tell me where they are!"</p> +<p>Max's eyes were shining. "They are in the chest, <i>mon +cher</i>. We put them there for safety as we went out last +night."</p> +<p>"Good! Give me the key."</p> +<p>"The key, <i>mon ami</i>, I have left at the Hôtel +Railleux!"</p> +<p>Consternation spread over Blake's face, then he burst out +laughing and turned to Jacqueline, relapsing into French.</p> +<p>"Monsieur Max would have you to know, mademoiselle, that he +possesses an altogether unusual and superior set of Oriental china, +which he bought from a certain villanous Jew at the corner of the +rue André de Sarte; that for safety he has locked that china +into the artistic and musty dower-chest standing against the wall; +and that for greater safety he has forgotten the key in an antique +hotel near the Gare du Nord!"</p> +<p>He laughed again; Max laughed; the little Jacqueline laughed, +and ran to the door.</p> +<p>"Oh, <i>la! la</i>! What a pair of children!" She flitted out of +the room, returning with two cups, which she set beside the coffee +and the milk.</p> +<p>"And now, messieurs, it is possible you can arrange for +yourselves!" She shot a bright, quizzical look from one to the +other. "I know you would wish me to stay and measure out the milk +and sugar, and it would flatter me to do so, but, unhappily, I have +a dish of some importance upon my own fire, and it is necessary +that one is domestic when one is only a woman—is it not so, +Monsieur Max?" She wrinkled her pretty face into a grimace of +mischief, and nodded as if some idea infinitely amusing, infinitely +profound lurked at the back of her blonde head.</p> +<p>"Good-day, Monsieur Edouard. Good-day, Monsieur Max!"</p> +<p>"Strange little creature!" said Blake, as the door closed upon +her. "Frail as a butterfly, with one capacity to prevent her taking +wing!"</p> +<p>"And that capacity—what is it?" Max had returned to his +former position, and was pouring out the coffee as he crouched +comfortably by the fire.</p> +<p>"The capacity, boy, for the <i>grande passion</i>. Odd that it +should exist in so light a vessel, but these are the secrets of +Nature! There are moments, you know, when this little Jacqueline +isn't laughing at life—rare, I admit, but still +existent—and then you see that the corners of her mouth can +droop. She may live to find existence void, but she'll never live +to find it shallow. Thanks, boy!" He took his cup of coffee, and, +walking to the table, cut a slice of bread, which he carried back +to the fire. "Now, don't say a word! I'm going to make you the +finest bit of toast you ever saw in your life!"</p> +<p>Max, preserving the required silence, watched him make the +toast, carefully balancing the bread on the tip of a knife, +carefully browning, carefully buttering it.</p> +<p>"Now! Taste that, and tell me if there wasn't a great +<i>chef</i> lost in me!"</p> +<p>He carried the toast back to the fire and watched Max eat the +first morsel.</p> +<p>"Nice?"</p> +<p>"Delicious!"</p> +<p>"Ah! Then it's all fair sailing! I'll cut myself a bit of bread +and sit down on my heels like you. There's something in that +Turkish idea, after all! But, as I was saying"—he buttered +his bread and dropped into position beside the boy—"as I was +saying awhile ago, that child next door, with all her innocent air +and her blue eyes, has climbed the slippery stairs and reached the +seventh heaven. And not only reached it herself, mind you, but +dragged that ungainly Cartel with her by the tip of her tiny +finger! Wonderful! Wonderful! Enviable fate!"</p> +<p>Max's eyes laughed. "M. Cartel's?"</p> +<p>"M. Cartel's. Oh, boy, that seventh heaven! Those slippery +steps!"</p> +<p>"And the tip of a tiny finger?" Max was jesting; but Blake, lost +in his own musings, did not perceive it.</p> +<p>"For Cartel—yes!" he said. "For me, no! I think I'd like +the whole hand."</p> +<p>Here Max picked up a tongs and stirred the logs until they +blazed.</p> +<p>"Absurd!" he said. "The tip of a finger or the whole of a hand, +it is all the same! It is a mistake, this love! That old story of +the Garden and the Serpent is as true as truth. Man and Woman were +content to live and adorn the world until one day they espied the +stupid red Apple—and straightway they must eat! Look even at +this Cartel! He is an artist; he might make the world listen to his +music. But, no! He sees a little butterfly, as you call +her—all blonde and blue—and down falls his ambition, +and up go his eyes to the sky, and henceforth he is content to +fiddle to himself and to the stars! Oh, my patience leaves me!" +Again he struck the logs, and a golden shower of sparks flew up the +chimney.</p> +<p>"I don't know!" said Blake, placidly. "I'm not so sure that he +isn't getting the best of it, when all's said and done!"</p> +<p>Max reddened. "You make me angry with this 'I do not know!' and +'I am not so sure!' The matter is like day. You cannot submerge +your personality and yet retain it."</p> +<p>"I don't know! I'd submerge mine to-morrow if I could find an +<i>alter ego</i>!"</p> +<p>"Then, <i>mon cher</i>, you are a fool!"</p> +<p>Blake drank his coffee meditatively. "Some say the fools are +happier than the wise men! I remember a poor fool of a boy at home +in Clare who used to say that he danced every night with the +fairies on the rath, and I often thought he was happier than the +people who listened to him out of pity, and shook their heads and +laughed behind his back!"</p> +<p>Max looked up, and as he looked the anger died out of his +eyes.</p> +<p>"Ned, <i>mon cher</i>, you are very patient with me!"</p> +<p>Blake turned. "What do you mean?"</p> +<p>"What I say—that you are patient. Why is it?"</p> +<p>"Oh, I don't know. I'm fond of you, I suppose."</p> +<p>"I am, then, a good comrade?"</p> +<p>"The best."</p> +<p>"What is it you find in me?"</p> +<p>"I don't know! You are you."</p> +<p>"I amuse you?"</p> +<p>"You do—and more."</p> +<p>"More! In what way more?" Max drew nearer.</p> +<p>"Oh, I don't know! You're as amusing and spirited and generous +as any boy I've known, and yet you're different from any boy. You +sometimes fit into my thoughts almost like a woman might!" He +hesitated, and laughed at his own conceit.</p> +<p>Max, with an odd little movement of haste, drew away again.</p> +<p>"Do not say that, <i>mon ami</i>! Do not think it! I am your +good comrade, that is all."</p> +<p>"Of course you are! Sorry if I hurt your pride."</p> +<p>"You did not. It was not that." With an inexplicable change of +mood Max drew near again, and suddenly slipped his hand through +Blake's arm.</p> +<p>They laughed in unison at the return to amity, and then fell +silent, looking into the fire, watching the blue spurt of the +flames, the feathery curls of ash on the charred logs.</p> +<p>"Ned! Make me one of your stories! Tell me what you are seeing +in the fire!"</p> +<p>Blake settled himself more comfortably.</p> +<p>"Well, boy, I was just seeing a castle," he began in the +accepted manner of the story-teller, and in his pleasant, soothing +voice. "A great big castle on the summit of a mountain, with a +golden flag fluttering in the sunset; and I think it must be the +'Castle of Heart's Desire,' because all up the craggy path that +leads to it there are knights urging their horses—"</p> +<p>"Good!" Max smiled with pleasure and pressed his arm. "Continue! +Continue!"</p> +<p>"Well, they're all sorts of knights, you know," Blake went on in +the dreamy, singsong voice—"fair knights and red knights and +black knights, every one of them in glittering armor, with long +lances, and wonderful devices on their shields—"</p> +<p>"Yes! Yes!"</p> +<p>"—wonderful devices on their shields, and spurs of gold +and silver, and waving plumes of many colors; and the flanks of +their horses—cream-colored and chestnut and black—shine +in the light."</p> +<p>"Continue, <i>mon cher</i>! Continue! I can see them also!" Max, +utterly absorbed, charming as a child, bent forward, staring into +the heart of the fire.</p> +<p>"Well, they mount and mount and mount, and sometimes the great +horses refuse the craggy path and rear, and sometimes a knight is +unseated and the others look back and laugh at his discomfiture and +ride on until they themselves are proved unfit; and so, on and on, +while the way gets steeper and more perilous, and the company +smaller and still smaller, until the sun drops down behind the +mountain and the gold flag flutters as gray as a moth, and in all +the windows of the castle torches spring up to greet the knight who +shall succeed."</p> +<p>"And which is he—the knight who shall succeed?"</p> +<p>"Don't you see him?"</p> +<p>"No! Where is he? Where?"</p> +<p>"Why, there—riding first, on the narrowest verge of the +craggy path! A very young knight with dark hair and a proud +carriage and gray eyes with flecks of gold in them."</p> +<p>For an instant Max gazed seriously into the flames, then turned, +blushing and laughing.</p> +<p>"Ah! But you are laughing at me! What a shame! For a punishment +you shall go straight back to work." He jumped up and handed Blake +his discarded hammer.</p> +<p>Blake looked reluctantly at the hammer, then looked back at the +enticing flame of the logs.</p> +<p>"Oh, very well! Have it your own way!" he said, getting slowly +to his feet. "But if I were you, I'd like to have heard what +awaited the knight in the tapestried chamber of the castle +tower!"</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_XIII'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XIII</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">TO the zest of the amateur, Blake added +knowledge of a practical kind in the arrangement of household gods, +and long ere the February dusk had fallen, the fifth-floor +<i>appartement</i> had assumed a certain homeliness. True, much of +the 'old iron,' as he termed the coppers and brasses for which Max +had bartered in the rue André de Sarte, still encumbered the +floor, and most of the windows cried aloud for covering; but the +little <i>salon</i> was habitable, and in the bedroom once occupied +by Madame Salas a bed and a dressing-table stood forth, fresh and +enticing enough to suggest a lady's chamber, while over the high +window white serge curtains shut out the cold.</div> +<p>At seven o'clock, having torn the canvas wrappings from the last +chair, the two workers paused in their labors by common consent and +looked at each other by the uncertain light of half a dozen candles +stuck into bowls and vases in various corners of the +<i>salon</i>.</p> +<p>"Boy," said Blake, breaking what had been a long silence, "I +tell you what it is, you're done! Take a warm by the fire for a +minute, while I tub under the kitchen tap, then we'll fare forth +for a meal and a breath of air!"</p> +<p>Max, who had worked with fierce zeal if little knowledge, made +no protest. His face was pale, and he moved with a certain slow +weariness.</p> +<p>"Here! Let's test the big chair!" Blake pulled forward the deep +leathern arm-chair, that had been purchased second-hand in the rue +de la Nature, and set it in front of the blazing logs. Without a +word, Max sank into it.</p> +<p>"Comfortable?"</p> +<p>"Very comfortable." The voice was a little thin.</p> +<p>The other looked down upon him. "You're done, you know! +Literally done! Why didn't you give in sooner?"</p> +<p>"Because I was not tired—and I am not tired."</p> +<p>"Not tired! And your face is as white as a sheet! I don't +believe you're fit to go out for food."</p> +<p>"How absurd! You talk as though I were a child!" Max lifted +himself petulantly on one elbow, but his head drooped and the +remonstrance died away before it was finished.</p> +<p>"I talk as if you were a child, do I? Then I talk uncommon good +sense! Well, I'm off to wash."</p> +<p>"There is some soap in my bedroom." The voice seemed to come +from a great distance, the elbow slipped from the arm of the chair, +the dark head drooped still more, and as the door shut upon Blake, +the eyelids closed mechanically.</p> +<p>Blake's washing was a protracted affair, for the day had been +long and the toil strenuous; but at last he returned, face and +hands clean, hair smooth, and clothes reduced to order.</p> +<p>"Sorry for being so long," he began, as he walked into the room; +but there he stopped, his eyebrows went up, and his face assumed a +curious look, half amused, half tender.</p> +<p>"Poor child!" he said below his breath, and tiptoeing across the +room, he paused by the arm-chair, in the depths of which Max's +slight figure was curled up in the pleasant embrace of sleep.</p> +<p>The fire had died down, the pool of candle-light was not +brilliant, and in the soft, shadowed glow the boy made an +attractive picture.</p> +<a name="mystery"></a> +<center><img src="images/ill126.jpg" width="400" height="614" alt= +"THE IMPRESSION OF A MYSTERY FLOWED BACK UPON HIM"></center> +<h5>THE IMPRESSION OF A MYSTERY FLOWED BACK UPON HIM</h5> +<p>One hand lay carelessly on either arm of the chair; the head was +thrown back, the black lashes of the closed eyes cast shadows on +the smooth cheeks.</p> +<p>Blake looked long and interestedly, and his earliest +impression—the impression of a mystery—flowed back upon +him strong as on the night of the long journey.</p> +<p>The beauty and strength of the face called forth thought; and +Max's own declaration, so often repeated, came back upon him with +new meaning, 'I am older than you think!'</p> +<p>For almost the first time the words carried weight. It was not +that the features looked older; if anything they appeared younger +in their deep repose. But the expression—the slight knitting +of the dark brows, the set of the chin, the modelling of the full +lips, usually so mobile and prone to laughter—suggested a +hidden force, gave warranty of a depth, a strength irreconcilable +with a boy's capacities.</p> +<p>He looked—puzzled, attracted; then his glance dropped from +the face to the pathetically tired limbs, and the sense of pity +stirred anew, banishing question, causing the light of a pleasant +inspiration to awaken in his eyes.</p> +<p>Smiling to himself, he replenished the fire with exaggerated +stealth; and, creeping out of the room, closed the door behind +him.</p> +<p>He was gone for over half an hour, and when he again entered, +the fire had sprung into new life, and fresh flames—blue and +sulphur and copper-colored—were dancing up the chimney, while +the candles in their strange abiding-places had burned an inch or +two lower. But his eyes were for Max, and for Max alone, and with +the same intense stealth he crept across the room to the bare table +and solemnly unburdened himself of a variety of parcels and a +cheery-looking bottle done up in red tissue-paper.</p> +<p>Max still slept, and, drawing a sigh of satisfaction, he +proceeded with the task he had set himself—the task of +providing supper after the manner of the genius in the +fairy-tale.</p> +<p>First plates were brought from the new-filled kitchen shelves; +then knives were found, and forks; then the mysterious-looking +parcels delivered up their contents—a cold roast chicken, all +brown and golden as it had left the oven, cheese, butter, crisp +rolls, and crisp red radishes, finally a little basket piled with +fruit.</p> +<p>It was a very simple meal, but Blake smiled to himself as he set +out the dishes to the best advantage, placed the wine reverentially +in the centre to crown the feast, and at last, still tiptoeing, +came round to the back of Max's chair and laid his hands over the +closed eyes.</p> +<p>"Guess!" he said, as if to a child.</p> +<p>Max gave a little cry, in which surprise and fear struggled for +supremacy; then he sprang to his feet, shaking off the imprisoning +hands.</p> +<p>"What is it? Who is it?" Then he laughed shamefacedly, and, +turning, saw the spread table.</p> +<p>"Oh, <i>mon ami</i>!" His eyes opened wide, and he gazed from +the food to Blake. "<i>Mon ami!</i> You have done this for me while +I was sleeping!"</p> +<p>His gaze was eloquent even beyond his words, and Blake, finding +no fit answer, began to move about the room, collecting the vases +that held the candles and carrying them to the table.</p> +<p>"<i>Mon ami!</i>"</p> +<p>"Nonsense, boy! It's little enough I do, goodness knows!"</p> +<p>"This is a great deal."</p> +<p>"Nonsense! What is it? You were fagged and I was fresh! And now +I suppose I must knock the head off this bottle, for we haven't a +corkscrew. The Lord lend me a steady hand, for 'twould be a pity if +I shook the wine!"</p> +<p>He carried the bottle to the fireplace, and with considerable +dexterity cracked the head and wiped the raw glass edges. "Now, +boy, the glasses! Oh, but have we glasses, though?" His face fell +in a manner that set Max laughing.</p> +<p>"We have one glass—in my room."</p> +<p>"Bravo! Fly for it!"</p> +<p>Max laughed again—his sleep, his surprise, his gratitude +equally routed; he flew, in literal obedience to the command, +across the little hall and, groping his way to the dressing-table, +searched about in the darkness for the tumbler.</p> +<p>"Ned! A candle!"</p> +<p>Blake brought the desired light, and together they discovered +the coveted glass. Max seized upon it eagerly, but as he delivered +it up a swift exclamation escaped him:</p> +<p>"My God! How dirty I am! Regard my hands!"</p> +<p>"What does it matter! You can wash after you've eaten."</p> +<p>"Oh, but no! I pay more compliment to your feast."</p> +<p>"Very well, then! We may hope to sup in an hour or so. I know +you and the making of your toilet!"</p> +<p>"Impertinent!" Max caught him by the arm and pushed him, +laughing, toward the door. "Go back and complete the table. I will +delay but four—three—two minutes in the making of +myself clean."</p> +<p>"But the table is complete—"</p> +<p>"It is incomplete, <i>mon ami</i>; it is without flowers."</p> +<p>Before Blake's objections could form into new words, he found +himself in the little hallway with the bedroom door closed upon +him, and, being a philosopher, he shook his head contentedly and +walked back into the <i>salon</i>, where he obediently brought to +light the bowl of jonquils that was still perfuming the air from +its dark corner, and set it carefully between the wine and the +fruit.</p> +<p>Ten minutes and more slipped by, during which, still +philosophical, he walked slowly round and round the table, +straightening a candle here, altering a dish there, humming all the +while in a not unmusical voice the song from <i>Louise</i>.</p> +<p>He was dwelling fondly upon the line</p> +<div class='blkquot'> +<p>"Depuis le jour où je me suis donnée"—</p> +</div> +<p>when the door of the bedroom was flung open as by a gale, and at +the door of the <i>salon</i> appeared Max—his dark hair +falling over his forehead, a comb in one hand, a brush in the +other.</p> +<p>"<i>Mon cher!</i> a hundred—a thousand apologies for being +so long! It is all the fault of my hair!"</p> +<p>Blake looked at him across the candles. "Indeed I wouldn't +bother about my hair, if I were you! A century of brushing wouldn't +make it respectable."</p> +<p>"Why not?"</p> +<p>"Look at the length of it!"</p> +<p>"Ah, but that pleases me!"</p> +<p>Blake shook his head in mock seriousness. "These artists! These +artists!" he murmured to himself.</p> +<p>Max laughed, threw the comb and brush from him into some unseen +corner of the hall, and ran across the <i>salon</i>.</p> +<p>"You are very ill-mannered! I shall box your ears!"</p> +<p>Blake threw himself into an attitude of defence. "I'd ask +nothing better!" he cried. "Come on! Just come on!"</p> +<p>Max, laughing and excited, took a step forward, then paused as +at some arresting thought.</p> +<p>"Afraid? Oh, <i>la, la</i>! Afraid?"</p> +<p>"Afraid!" The boy tossed the word back scornfully, but his face +flushed and he made no advance.</p> +<p>"You'll have to, now, you know!"</p> +<p>Max retreated.</p> +<p>"Oh, no, you don't!" With a quick, gay laugh, touched with the +fire of battle, Blake followed; but ere he could come to close +quarters, the boy had dodged and, lithe and swift as a cat, was +round the table.</p> +<p>"No! No!" he cried, with a little gasp, a little sob of +excitement that caught the breath. "No! No! I demand grace. A +starving man, <i>mon ami</i>! A starving man! It is not fair."</p> +<p>He knew his adversary. Blake's hands dropped to his sides, he +yielded with a laugh.</p> +<p>"Very well! Very well! Another time I'll see what you're made +of. And now 'we'll exterminate the bread-stuffs,' as McCutcheon +would say!"</p> +<p>And laughing, jesting—content in the moment for the +moment's sake—they sat down to their first serious meal in +the little <i>salon</i>.</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_XIV'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XIV</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">THE meal was over; the candles had burned low; +in the quiet, warm room the sense of repose was dominant.</div> +<p>Blake took out his cigarette-case and passed it across the +table, watching Max with lazy interest as he chose a cigarette and +lighted it at a candle-flame.</p> +<p>"Happy?"</p> +<p>"Absolutely!"</p> +<p>He had wanted in a vague, subconscious way to see the flash of +the white teeth, the quick, familiar lifting of the boy's glance, +and now he smiled as a man secretly satisfied.</p> +<p>"I know just exactly what you're feeling," he said, as Max threw +himself back in his chair and inhaled a first deep breath of smoke. +"You feel that that little white curl from the end of your +cigarette is the last puff of smoke from the boats you have burned; +and that, with your own four walls around you, you can snap your +fingers at the world. I know! God, don't I know!"</p> +<p>Max smiled slowly, watching the tip of his cigarette. "Yes, you +know! That is the beautiful thing about you."</p> +<p>The appreciation warmed Blake's soul as the good red wine had +warmed his blood.</p> +<p>"I believe I do—with you. I believe I could tell you +precisely your thoughts at this present moment." With a pleasant, +meditative action, he drew a cigar from his case.</p> +<p>"Tell me!"</p> +<p>"Well, first of all, there's the great contentment—the +sense of a definite step. You're strong enough to like +finality."</p> +<p>"I hope I am. I think I am."</p> +<p>"You are! Not a doubt of it! But what I mean is that you've left +an old world for a new one; and no matter how exciting the voyaging +through space may have been, you like to feel your feet on terra +firma."</p> +<p>Max leaned forward eagerly. "That is quite true! And I like it +because now I can open my eyes, and say to myself, 'not to-morrow, +but to-day I live.' I have put—how do you say in +English?—my hand upon the plough."</p> +<p>"Exactly! The plough—or the palette—it's all the +same! You're set to it now."</p> +<p>The boy's eyes flashed in the candle-light, and for an instant +something of the fierce emotion that can lash the Russian calm, as +a gale lashes the sea, troubled his young face.</p> +<p>"You comprehend—absolutely! I have made my choice; I have +come to it out of many situations. I would die now rather than I +would fail."</p> +<p>In his voice was a suppressed fervor akin to some harsh or cruel +emotion; and to Blake, watching and listening, there floated the +hot echo of stories in which Russians had acted strange parts with +a resolve, a callousness incomprehensible to other races.</p> +<p>"When you talk like that, boy, I could almost go back to that +first night, and adopt McCutcheon's theory. You might feasibly be a +revolutionary with those blazing eyes."</p> +<p>Max laughed, coming back to the moment.</p> +<p>"Only revolutionary in my own cause! I fight myself for myself. +You take my meaning?"</p> +<p>"Not in the very least! But I accept your statement; I like its +brave ring. You are your own romance."</p> +<p>"I am my own romance."</p> +<p>"Let's drink to it, then! Your romance—whatever it may +be!" He raised the half-empty tumbler, drank a little, and handed +it across the table.</p> +<p>Max laughed and drank as well. "My romance—whatever it may +be!"</p> +<p>"Whatever it may be! And now for that breath of air we promised +ourselves! It's close on ten o'clock."</p> +<p>So the meal ended; coats were found, candles blown out, and a +last proprietary inspection of the <i>appartement</i> made by the +aid of matches.</p> +<p>They ran down the long, smooth staircase, and, stepping into the +quiet, starlit rue Müller, linked arms and began their descent +upon Paris with as much ease, as nice a familiarity as though life +for both of them had been passed in the shadow of the +Sacré-Coeur.</p> +<p>On the Boulevard de Clichy the usual confusion of lights and +humanity greeted them like welcoming arms, and with the same +agreeable nonchalance they yielded to the embrace.</p> +<p>Conscious of no definite purpose, they turned to the right and +began to breast the human tide with eyes carelessly critical of the +thronging faces, ears heedlessly open to the many tangled sounds of +street life. Outside the theatres, flaunting posters made pools of +color; in the roadway, the network of traffic surged and +intermingled; from amid the flat house fronts, at every few hundred +yards, some <i>cabaret</i> broke upon the sight in crude confusion +of scenic painting and electric light; while dominating all—a +monument to the power of tradition—the sails of the +time-honored mill sprang red and glaring from a background of quiet +sky.</p> +<p>But the two, walking arm-in-arm, had no glance for revolving +mill-sails or vivid advertisement, and presently Blake halted +before a house that, but for a certain prosperity of stained-glass +window and dark-green paint, would have seemed a common wine +shop.</p> +<p>"Max," he said, "do you remember the famous night when we went +to the Bal Tabarin, and saw much wine spilled? It was here I was +first going to bring you then."</p> +<p>"Here?"</p> +<p>"This very place! 'Tis one of the old artistic <i>cabarets</i> +of Paris—grown a bit too big for its shoes now, like the rest +of Montmartre, but still retaining a flavor. What do you say to +turning in?"</p> +<p>"I say 'yes.'"</p> +<p>"Come along, then! I hope 'twon't disappoint you! There's a good +deal of rubbish here, but a scattering of grain among the chaff. +Ah, messieurs! Good-evening!"</p> +<p>This last was addressed with cordiality to a knot of men +gathered inside the doorway of the <i>cabaret</i>, all of whom rose +politely from their chairs at Blake's entry.</p> +<p>Max, peering curiously through the tobacco smoke that veiled the +place, received an impression of a room—rather, of a +shop—possessed of tables, chairs, a small circular counter +where glasses and bottles winked and gleamed, and of walls hung +with a truly Parisian collection of impressionist studies and +clever caricatures.</p> +<p>"Monsieur is interested?"</p> +<p>He turned, to meet the eyes of the host, a stout and affable +Frenchman, who by right divine held first place among the little +group of loungers; but before he could frame a reply, Blake +answered for him.</p> +<p>"He is an artist, M. Fruvier, and finds all life +interesting."</p> +<p>M. Fruvier bowed with much subtle comprehension.</p> +<p>"Then possibly it will intrigue him to step inside, and hear our +little concert. We are about to commence."</p> +<p>Blake nodded in silent acquiescence; the knot of men bowed +quickly and stiffly; and Max found himself being led across the +bare, sawdust-strewn floor into an inner and larger room—a +holy of holies—where the light was dimmer and the air more +cool.</p> +<p>Here, a scattered audience was assembled—a score or so of +individuals, sober of dress, unenthusiastic of demeanor, sitting in +twos and threes, sipping beer or liqueurs and waiting for the +concert to begin.</p> +<p>Max's eyes wandered over this collection of people while Blake +sought for seats, but his glance and his interest passed on almost +immediately to the walls, where, as in the outer room, pictures +ranged from floor to ceiling.</p> +<p>The seats were chosen; a white-aproned waiter claimed an order, +and Blake gave one as if from habit.</p> +<p>"And now, boy, a cigarette?"</p> +<p>"If you please—a cigarette!" Max's voice had the quick +note, his eyes the swift light that spoke excitement. "<i>Mon +ami</i>, I like this place! I like it! And I wonder who painted +that?" He indicated a picture that hung upon the wall beside +them.</p> +<p>"I don't know! Some chap who used to frequent the place in his +unknown days. We can ask Fruvier."</p> +<p>"It is clever."</p> +<p>"It is."</p> +<p>"It has imagination."</p> +<p>They both looked at the picture—a study in black and +white, showing an attic room, with a <i>pierrette</i> seated +disconsolate upon a bed, a <i>pierrot</i> gazing through a +window.</p> +<p>"<i>Pierrot</i> seeking the moon, eh?"</p> +<p>Max nodded.</p> +<p>"Yes. It has imagination—and also technique!"</p> +<p>But their criticism was interrupted; a piano was opened at the +farther end of the room by an individual affecting the unkempt hair +and velveteen coat of past Bohemianism, who seated himself and ran +his fingers over the keys as though he alone occupied the room.</p> +<p>At this very informal signal, the curtain rose upon a +ridiculously small stage, and an insignificant, nervous-looking man +stepped toward the footlights at the same moment that M. Fruvier +and his followers entered and seated themselves in a row, their +backs to the wall.</p> +<p>This appearance of the proprietor was the sole meed of interest +offered to the singer, the audience continuing to smoke, to sip, +even to peruse the evening papers with stoic indifference.</p> +<p>The song began—a long and unamusing ditty, topical in its +points. Here and there a smile showed that it did not pass unheard, +and as the singer disappeared a faint <i>roulade</i> of applause +came from the back of the room.</p> +<p>Max turned to his companion.</p> +<p>"But I believed the Parisians to be all excitement! What an +audience! Like the dead!"</p> +<p>"They are excitable when something excites them."</p> +<p>"Then they dislike this song?"</p> +<p>"Oh no! 'Not bad!' they'd say if you asked them; but they're not +here to be excited—they're not here to waste enthusiasm. Like +ourselves, they have worked and have eaten, and are enjoying an +hour's repose. The song is part of the hour—as inevitable as +the <i>bock</i> and the cigar, and you can't expect a smoker to wax +eloquent over a familiar weed."</p> +<p>"How strange! How interesting!" The boy looked round the +scattered groups that formed to his young eyes another side-show in +the vast theatre of life.</p> +<p>No one heeded his interest. The women, young and elderly alike, +conversed with their escorts and sipped their liqueurs with +absorbed quiet; the men smoked and drank, talked or read aloud +little paragraphs from their papers with whispering relish.</p> +<p>Then again the piano tinkled, and the same singer appeared, to +sing another song almost identical with the first; but now his +nervousness was less, he won a laugh or two for his political +innuendoes, and when he finished Max clapped his hands, and Blake +laughingly followed suit.</p> +<p>"He's a new man," he said; "this is probably his first +night."</p> +<p>"His first? Oh, poor creature! What a <i>début</i>! Clap +your hands again!"</p> +<p>"Poor creature indeed! He's delighted with himself. Many a +better man has been driven from the stage after his first verse. +Your Paris can be cruel."</p> +<p>Their example had been tepidly followed, and the singer, beaming +under the relaxed tension of his nerves, was smiling and bowing +before entering upon the perils of a third song.</p> +<p>"And what do they pay him?"</p> +<p>"Oh, a couple of francs a song! The fees will grow with his +success."</p> +<p>Max gasped. "A couple of francs! Oh, my God!"</p> +<p>"What do you expect? We're not in Eldorado."</p> +<p>"But a couple of francs!"</p> +<p>"Ssh! Don't talk anarchy. Here come the powers that be!"</p> +<p>M. Fruvier was coming toward them, making his way between the +seats with many bows, many apologetic smiles.</p> +<p>"Well, messieurs, and what of our new one? Not a Vagot, +perhaps"—mentioning a famous <i>comique</i> whose star had +risen in the firmament of the <i>cabaret</i>—"not a Vagot, +perhaps, but not bad! Not bad?"</p> +<p>"Not bad!" acquiesced Blake.</p> +<p>"Very good!" added Max, pondering hotly upon the wage of the +singer, and regarding M. Fruvier with doubtful glance.</p> +<p>"No! No! Not bad!" reiterated that gentleman, as if viewing the +performance from a wholly impersonal standpoint. "Not bad!" And, +still bowing, still smiling, he wandered on to exchange opinions +with his other patrons, while a new singer appeared, a man whose +vast proportions and round red face looked truly absurd upon the +tiny stage, but whose merry eye and instant friendly nod gained him +a murmur of welcome.</p> +<p>With the appearance of the new-comer a little stir of life was +felt, and in obedience to some impulse of his own, Max took a +sketch-book and a pencil from his pocket, and sat forward in his +seat, with glance roving round and round the room, pencil poised +above the paper.</p> +<p>"I heard this fellow here twelve years ago," said Blake. "He and +Vagot were young men then. Shows the odd lie of things in this +world! There's Vagot making his thousands of francs a week next +door at the Moulin Rouge, and this poor fat clown still where he +was!"</p> +<p>Max did not reply. His head was bent, his face flushed; he was +sketching with a furious haste.</p> +<p>"What are you doing?"</p> +<p>Still no reply. The song rolled on; and Blake, leaning back in +his seat, smoking with leisurely enjoyment, felt for perhaps the +first time in his life the sense of complete +companionship—that subtle condition of mind so continuously +craved, so rarely found, so instantly recognized.</p> +<p>"Boy," he said at last, "let me come up sometimes when you're +messing with your paints? I won't bother you."</p> +<p>Max looked up and nodded—a mere flash of a look, but one +that conveyed sufficient; and the two relapsed again into +silence.</p> +<p>At the end of an hour the boy raised his head, tossed a lock of +hair out of his eyes, and closed his sketch-book.</p> +<p>Blake met his eyes comprehendingly. "Will we go?"</p> +<p>"Yes. But one more glance at this black-and-white!"</p> +<p>He jumped up, unembarrassed, unconscious of self, and looked at +the picture closely; then stepped back and looked at it from a +little distance, eyes half closed, head critically upon one +side.</p> +<p>"Satisfied?" Blake rose more slowly.</p> +<p>"Perfectly. It is clever—this! It has imagination!" He +slipped his arm confidingly through Blake's, and together they made +a way to the door.</p> +<p>A new song began as they stepped into the outer room—the +tinkle of the piano came thinly across the smoke-laden air. Blake +paused and looked back.</p> +<p>"Well, and what do you think of it? A trifle dull, perhaps, but +still—"</p> +<p>"Dull? But no! Never! I could work here. Others have worked +here. It is in the atmosphere—- the desire to create."</p> +<p>They passed into the street, Blake raising his hat to a stout +lady, presumably Madame Fruvier, who sat wedged behind the counter, +Max glancing greedily at the bold rough sketches, the brilliantly +Parisian caricatures adorning the walls.</p> +<p>"It is in the atmosphere! One breathes it!" he said again, as +they walked down the cool, lighted boulevard. "I feel it to-night +as I have not felt it before—the artist's Paris. <i>Mon +ami</i>"—he raised a glowing face—"<i>mon ami</i>, tell +me something! Do you think I shall succeed? Do you think I possess +a spark of the great fire—a spark ever so tiny?"</p> +<p>His earnestness was almost comical. He stopped and arraigned his +companion, regardless of interested glances and passing smiles.</p> +<p>"Ned, tell me! Tell me! Have you faith in me?"</p> +<p>Blake looked into the feverishly bright eyes, and a swift +conviction possessed him.</p> +<p>"I know this, boy, whatever you do, you'll do it finely! More I +cannot say."</p> +<p>Max fell silent, and they proceeded on their way, each +preoccupied with his own thoughts. At the turning to the heights +Blake paused.</p> +<p>"I'll say good-bye here! I have letters to write to-night; but +I'll be up to-morrow to spirit you off to lunch. I won't come too +early, for I know what you'll be doing all the morning."</p> +<p>Max laughed, coming back out of his dream. "And what is it I +shall be doing all the morning?"</p> +<p>"Why, carting canvases and paint tubes, and God knows what, up +those steps till your back is broken, and then settling down with +your temper and your ambition at fever heat to begin the great +picture at the most inopportune moment in the world! Think I don't +know you?"</p> +<p>Max laughed again, but more softly.</p> +<p>"<i>Mon ami!</i>"</p> +<p>"I'm right, eh? That sketch at the <i>cabaret</i> is meant to +grow?"</p> +<p>Instantly Max was diffident. "Oh, I am not so sure! It is only +an idea. It may not arrive at anything."</p> +<p>"Let's have a look?"</p> +<p>Max's hand went slowly toward his pocket. "I am not sure that I +like it; it is not my theory of life. It's more of your +theory—it is ironical."</p> +<p>"Let's see!"</p> +<p>The sketch-book came reluctantly to light, and as Max opened it, +the two stepped close to a street lamp.</p> +<p>"As I tell you, it is ironical. If it becomes a picture I shall +give it this name—<i>The Failure</i>." He handed it to Blake, +leaning close and peering over his shoulder in nervous anxiety.</p> +<p>"Understand, it is but an idea! I have put no work into it."</p> +<p>Blake held the book up to the light, his observant face grave +and interested.</p> +<p>"What a clever little beggar you are!" he said at length.</p> +<p>Max glowed at the words, and instantly his tongue was +loosed.</p> +<p>"Ah, <i>mon cher</i>, but it is only a sketch! That +atmosphere—that dim, smoky atmosphere—is so difficult +with the pencil. The audience is, of course, but suggested; all +that I really attempted was the singer—the failure with the +merry eyes."</p> +<p>"And well you've caught him too, by gad! One would think you had +seen the antithesis—Vagot, the success, long and lean and +yellow, the unhappiest-looking man you ever saw."</p> +<p>"Ah, but you must not say that!" cried Max unexpectedly. "I told +you it was not my theory. To me success is life, failure is death! +This is but a reflected impression of yours—- an impression +of irony!" He took the sketch-book from Blake's hands and closed it +sharply; then, to ask pardon for his little outburst, he +smiled.</p> +<p>"<i>Mon cher</i>! Forgive me! Come to-morrow, and we will see if +day has thrown new light."</p> +<p>They shook hands.</p> +<p>"All right—to-morrow! Good-night, boy—and good +luck!"</p> +<p>"Good-night!"</p> +<p>Max stood to watch the tall figure disappear into the tangle of +traffic, then with a light step, a light heart, a light sense of +propitiated fate, he began the climb to his home.</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_XV'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XV</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">THAT night the pencil-sketch obsessed the brain +of Max. Tossing wakeful upon his bed, he saw the pageant of the +future—touched the robe, all saffron and silver, of the +goddess Inspiration—and, with the brushes and colors of +imagination, gained to the gateway of fame.</div> +<p>It was a wild night that spurred to action, and with the coming +of the day, Blake's prophecy was fulfilled. Before the Montmartre +shops were open, he was seeking the materials of his art; and long +ere the sun was high, he was back in the room that had once been +the bedroom of M. Salas, surrounded by the disarray of the inspired +moment.</p> +<p>The room was small but lofty, and a fine light made his work +possible. The inevitable wood fire crackled on the hearth, but +otherwise the atmosphere spoke rigidly of toil.</p> +<p>Zeal, endeavor, ambition in its youngest, divinest +form—these were the suggestions dormant in the strewn +canvases, the tall easel, the bare walls; and none who were to +know, or who had known, Max—none destined to kindle to the +flame of his personality, ever viewed him in more characteristic +guise than he appeared on that February morning clad in his +painting smock, the lock of hair falling over his forehead, his +hands trembling with excitement, as he executed the first bold line +that meant the birth of his idea.</p> +<p>So remarkable, so characteristic was the pose that chance, ever +with an eye to effect, ordained it an observer, for scarcely had he +lost himself in the work than the door of his studio opened with a +Bohemian lack of ceremony, and his neighbor, +Jacqueline—dressed in a blue print dress that matched her +eyes—came smiling into the room.</p> +<p>"Good-day, monsieur!"</p> +<p>He glowered with complete unreserve.</p> +<p>"You are displeased, monsieur; I intrude?"</p> +<p>"You do, mademoiselle."</p> +<p>The tone was uncompromising, but Jacqueline came on, softly +moving nearer and nearer to the easel, looking from the canvas to +Max and back again to the canvas in an amused, secret fashion +comprehensible to herself alone.</p> +<p>"You feel like my poor Lucien, when an interruption offers +itself to his work; but, as I say, <i>ennui</i> is the price of +admiration! Is it not so, Monsieur Max?"</p> +<p>She leaned her blonde head to one side, and looked at him with +the naïve quality of meditation that so became her.</p> +<p>"Do not permit me to disturb you, monsieur! Continue +working."</p> +<p>"Thank you, mademoiselle!" A flicker of irony was observable in +the tone and, with exaggerated zeal, he returned to his task.</p> +<p>The girl came softly behind him, looking over his shoulder.</p> +<p>"What is the picture to be, monsieur?"</p> +<p>"It is an idea caught last night in a <i>cabaret</i>. It would +not interest you."</p> +<p>"And why not?"</p> +<p>Max shrugged his shoulders, and went on blocking in his +picture.</p> +<p>"Because it is a psychological study—a side-issue of +existence. Nothing to do with the crude facts of life."</p> +<p>"Oh!" Jacqueline drew in her breath softly. "I am only +interested, then, in the crude facts? How do you arrive at that +conclusion, monsieur?"</p> +<p>"By observation, mademoiselle."</p> +<p>"And what have you observed?"</p> +<p>"It is difficult to say—in words. In a picture I would put +it like this—a blue sky, a meadow of rank green grass, a +stream full of forget-me-nots, and a girl bending over it, with +eyes the color of the flowers. Conventionality would compel me to +call it <i>Spring</i> or <i>Youth</i>!" He spoke fast and he spoke +contemptuously.</p> +<p>She watched him, her head still characteristically drooping, the +little wise smile hovering about her lips.</p> +<p>"I comprehend!" she murmured to herself. "Monsieur is very +worldly-wise. Monsieur has discovered that there is—how shall +I say?—less atmosphere in a blue sky than in a gray one?"</p> +<p>Max glanced round at her. He had the uncomfortable feeling that +he was being laughed at, but her clear azure eyes met his +innocently, and her mouth was guiltless of smiles.</p> +<p>"I have had a sufficiency of blue sky," he said, and returned to +his work.</p> +<p>"One is liable to think that, monsieur, until the rain +falls!"</p> +<p>"So you doubt the endurance of my philosophy?"</p> +<p>She shrugged; she extended her pretty hands expressively.</p> +<p>"Monsieur is young!"</p> +<p>The words exasperated Max. Again it had arisen—the old +argument. The anger smouldering in his heart since the girl's +invasion flamed to speech.</p> +<p>"I could wish that the world was less ready with that opinion, +mademoiselle! It knows very little of what it says."</p> +<p>"Possibly, monsieur! but you admit that—that you are +scarcely aged." There was a quiver now about the pretty lips, a +hint of a laugh in the eyes.</p> +<p>"Mademoiselle,"—he wheeled round with unexpected +vehemence,—"I should like you, to tell me exactly how old you +think I am."</p> +<p>"You mean it, monsieur?"</p> +<p>"I mean it. Is it seventeen—or is it sixteen?" His voice +was edged with irony.</p> +<p>"It is neither, monsieur!" Jacqueline was very demure now, her +eyes sought the floor. "Granted your full permission, monsieur, I +would say—"</p> +<p>"You would say—?"</p> +<p>"I would say"—she flashed a daring look at him and +instantly dropped her eyes again—"I would say that you have +twenty-four, if not twenty-five years!"</p> +<p>The confession came in a little rush of speech, and as it left +her lips she moved toward the door, contemplating flight.</p> +<p>An immense surprise clouded Max's mind, a surprise that brought +the blood mantling to his face and sent his words forth with a +stammering indecision.</p> +<p>"Twenty-four—twenty-five! What gave you that idea?"</p> +<p>"Oh, monsieur, it is simple! It came to me by observation!"</p> +<p>Leaving Max still red, still confused, she slipped out of the +room noiselessly as she had come, and as the door closed he heard +the faint, exasperating sound of a light little laugh.</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_XVI'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XVI</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">AFTER Jacqueline had closed the door and the +light laugh had died into silence, Max stood before his easel, +hands inert, the flush still scorching his face. For the first time +since the birth of the new life he had been made sensible of +personal criticism—the criticism winged with fine ridicule, +that leaves its victim strangely uncertain, curiously uneasy. The +immemorial subtlety of woman had lurked in the girl's eyes as she +cast her last penetrating glance at him. He felt now, as he stood +alone, that his soul had been stripped and was naked to the bare +walls and gaping canvas, and his start was one of purely unbalanced +nerves when a knock fell upon the door, telling of a new +intruder.</div> +<p>He had all but cried out in protest when the door opened, but at +sight of the invader the cry merged into an unstrung laugh of +welcome.</p> +<p>"Ned! You?"</p> +<p>Blake walked into the room, talking as he came. "Well, upon my +word! Wasn't I right? Here he is, easel and canvas and +all—even the temper isn't wanting!"</p> +<p>Max ran forward, caught and clung to his arm.</p> +<p>"<i>Mon ami</i>! <i>Mon cher</i>! I have wanted you—wanted +you."</p> +<p>"Anything wrong?"</p> +<p>"No! No! Nothing. It was only—"</p> +<p>"What?"</p> +<p>Again Max laughed nervously, but his fingers tightened.</p> +<p>"Only this—I have wanted to hear you say that I am your +friend—your boy, Max—as I was yesterday and the day +before and the day before. Say it! Say it!" His eyes besought +Blake's.</p> +<p>"What! Tell you you are yourself?"</p> +<p>He nodded quickly and seriously.</p> +<p>The other looked into his face, and for some unaccountable +reason his amusement died away.</p> +<p>"What a child it is!" he said kindly; and, putting his hands +upon the boy's shoulders, he shook him gently. "Who has been +putting notions into your head? Whoever it is, just refer him to +me; I'll deal with him."</p> +<p>It was Max's turn to laugh. "Ah, but I am better now! I am quite +all right now! It was only for the moment!" He made a little sound, +half shy, half relieved. "It was, I suppose, as you expected; I +tired myself with carrying up these things, and then I still more +tired myself with trying to block in my picture, and +then—"</p> +<p>"Yes, then?"</p> +<p>"No more—nothing."</p> +<p>"I'm sceptical of that."</p> +<p>Max glanced up. "Well, to you I always say the truth. The girl +Jacqueline came in and chattered to me, and—"</p> +<p>"Oh, ho!"</p> +<p>"Do not say that! I cannot bear it."</p> +<p>"Nonsense! I'm only teasing you! Though why a little girl with +hair like spun silk and skin like ivory—"</p> +<p>"Ah! You admire her, then?"</p> +<p>"I do vastly—in the abstract."</p> +<p>"And what does that mean—in the abstract?"</p> +<p>"Oh, I don't know! I suppose it means that if I were a painter I +might use her as a model, or if I were a poet I might string a +verse to her; but being an ordinary man, it means—well, it +means that I don't feel drawn to kiss her. Do you see?"</p> +<p>"I see." Max grew thoughtful; he disengaged the hands still +lying lightly on his shoulders and walked back to his easel.</p> +<p>"You don't a bit! But it doesn't matter! What is it you're +doing?"</p> +<p>Max, idle before his canvas, did not reply.</p> +<p>"<i>Mon ami?</i>" he said, irrelevantly.</p> +<p>"What?"</p> +<p>"Tell me the sort of woman you want to kiss."</p> +<p>Blake looked round in surprise.</p> +<p>"Well, to begin with, I used the word symbolically. I'm a queer +beggar, you know; the kiss means a good deal to me. To me, it's the +key to the idealistic as well as the materialistic—the toll +at the gateway. I never kiss the light woman."</p> +<p>"No?" Max's voice was very low, his hands hung by his sides, the +look in his half-veiled eyes was strange. "Then what is she +like—the woman you would kiss?"</p> +<p>"Oh, she has no bodily form. One does not say 'her hair shall be +black' or 'her hair shall be red' any more than one makes an image +of God. She dwells in the mysterious. Even when the time comes and +she steps into reality, mystery will still cling to her. There must +always be the wonder—the miracle." He spoke softly, as he +always spoke when sentiment entrapped him. His native turn of +thought found vent at these odd times and made him infinitely +interesting. The slight satire that was ordinarily wont to twist +his smile was smoothed away, and a certain sadness stole into its +place; his green eyes lost their keenness of observation and looked +into a space obscure to others. In these rare moments he was +essentially of his race and of his country.</p> +<p>"No," he added, as if to himself, "a man does not say 'her hair +shall be red' or 'her hair shall be black'!"</p> +<p>"It is very curious—very strange—a dream like that!" +Max's voice was a mere whisper.</p> +<p>"Without his dreams, man would be an animal."</p> +<p>"And you, then, wait for this woman? In seriousness you wait, +and believe that out of nothing she will come to you?"</p> +<p>Blake turned away and walked slowly to the window, the sadness, +the aloofness still visible in his face like the glow from a +shrouded light.</p> +<p>"That's the hardship of it, boy—the faith that it wants +and the patience that it wants! Sometimes it takes the heart out of +a man! There're days when I feel like a derelict; when I say to +myself, 'Here I am, thirty-eight years old, unanchored, +unharbored.' Oh, I know I'm young as the world counts age! I know +that plenty of men and women like me, and that I pass the time of +day to plenty as I go along! But all the same, if I died to-morrow +there isn't one would break a heart over me. Not a solitary +one."</p> +<p>"Do not say that!"</p> +<p>"It's true, all the same! Sometimes I say to myself, 'Wha a fool +you are, Ned Blake! The Almighty gives reality to some and dreams +to some, and who knows but your lot is to go down to your grave +hugging empty hopes, like your forefathers before you!' It's +terrible, sometimes, the way the heart goes out of a man!"</p> +<p>"Ned! Ned! Do not say that!" Max's voice was strangely troubled, +strangely unlike itself, so unlike and troubled that it wakened +Blake to self-consciousness.</p> +<p>"I'm talking rank nonsense! I'm a fool!"</p> +<p>"You are not!" The boy ran across to him impulsively; then +paused, mute and shy.</p> +<p>"What is it, boy?"</p> +<p>"Only that what you say is not the truth. If you were to die, +there is one person who would—"</p> +<p>Blake's face softened. He was surprised and touched.</p> +<p>"What? You'd care?"</p> +<p>Max nodded.</p> +<p>"Thank you, boy! Thank you for that!"</p> +<p>They stood silent for a moment, looking through the uncurtained +window at the February breezes ruffling the holly bushes in the +plantation, each unusually aware of the other's presence, each +unusually self-conscious.</p> +<p>"But if it comes to pass—your miracle—you will +forget me? You will no longer have need of me, is that not so?"</p> +<p>Max spoke softly, a disproportionate seriousness darkening his +eyes, causing his voice to quiver.</p> +<p>Blake turned to answer in the same vein, but something checked +him—some embarrassment, some inexplicable doubt of +himself.</p> +<p>"Boy," he said, sharply, "we're running into deep waters. Don't +you think we ought to steer for shore? I came to smoke, you know, +and watch you at your work."</p> +<p>The words acted as a charm. Max threw up his head and gave a +little laugh, a trifle high, a shade hysterical.</p> +<p>"But, of course! But, of course! I believe I, too, was falling +into a dream; and the dream comes after, the work first, is it not +so? The work first; the work always first. Place another log upon +the fire and begin to smoke, and I swear to you that before the day +is finished I will make you proud of me. I swear it to you!"</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_XVII'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XVII</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">THERE is impetus, if not necessarily inspiration +in a goading thought, and Max returned to his interrupted task with +a zeal almost in excess of his protestations. He worked with +vigor—with an exuberant daring that seemed to suggest that +the creation of his picture was rather the creation of a mental +narcotic than the expression of an idea.</div> +<p>He had given rein to sentiment in the moment with Blake, and now +he was applying the curb, working incessantly—- never pausing +to speak—never casting a glance at the corner where his +companion was smoking and dreaming over the fire.</p> +<p>To the casual observer it might have seemed a scene of ideal +comradeship; yet in the minds of the comrades there lurked an +uneasiness, an uncertainty not lightly to be placed—not +easily to be clothed in words. A certain warmth was stirring in +Blake's heart, coupled with a certain wonder at his sudden +discovery of the depth of the boy's regard; while in the boy's own +soul a tumult of feelings ran riot.</p> +<p>Shame burned him that he should have confessed himself; +amazement seared him that the confession had been there to make. A +bewildering annoyance filled him—a first doubting of the ego +he was cherishing with so fine a care.</p> +<p>It is indeed a black moment when an egoist doubts himself; it is +as if the god within the temple became self-conscious; more, it is +as if the god rent down the veil before the shrine and showed +himself a thing of clay to his astonished worshippers.</p> +<p>The mind of Max was a complex study as he worked with his +new-found vehemence, expressing or crushing a thought with each +bold stroke. He prided himself upon his powers of self-analysis; +and, being possessed as well of honesty and of a measure of common +sense, the mental picture that confronted him was scarcely pleasant +seeing. Doubt of himself—of his own omnipotence—- had +assailed him; and, being young, being spoiled of the world, it +found expression in bitter resentment.</p> +<p>Having continued his onslaught upon the canvas until midday was +close at hand, he suddenly astonished the unoffending Blake by +flinging his charcoal from him to the furthest end of the room, +where it broke rudely against the spotless wall-paper.</p> +<p>"God bless my soul!" Blake turned, to see an angry figure +striding to the window, his hair ruffled, his hands thrust deep +into his trouser pockets.</p> +<p>"What in God's name is the matter with you?"</p> +<p>There was no answer and, being a wise man, he did not press the +point.</p> +<p>Presently, as he expected, the boyish figure wheeled round.</p> +<p>"I cannot work. It is all bad! All wrong!"</p> +<p>He rose slowly and began to walk toward the easel, but with a +cry the boy ran forward and intercepted him.</p> +<p>"No! No! No! It is bad, I tell you—you must not see. Look! +This is what I shall do. This!" He turned and, swift as lightning, +snapped up a knife, and before Blake could find a gesture or a +word, ripped his canvas from end to end.</p> +<p>"Upon my word! Well, upon my word! There's an extravagant young +devil! Why, in the name of God, would you destroy your canvas like +that?"</p> +<p>"Why? Because, my friend, I am I! I do not work again upon a +thing that I have marred!" His voice shook, trembling between +excited laughter and tears.</p> +<p>Blake looked at him. "Bless my soul, if he isn't crying! Come +here to me! You're a baby!"</p> +<p>But Max turned on him, so furious that the hot anger in his eyes +scorched the tears that hung there.</p> +<p>"A baby? This much a baby, that I love my work so truly that I +have set it upon an altar and made it my religion! And when I find, +as to-day, that it fails me I am damned—my soul is lost!"</p> +<p>"And why does it fail you—to-day?"</p> +<p>"I do not know!"</p> +<p>"Is that the truth?"</p> +<p>"Yes, it is."</p> +<p>"Are you perfectly sure? Are you perfectly sure that 'tisn't +I—my presence here—?"</p> +<p>"You?" Max withered him with a scorn meant for himself as well. +"You rate yourself high, my friend, and you imagine my work a very +trivial thing!"</p> +<p>"Nonsense! Plenty of artists must have solitude."</p> +<p>"Plenty of fools! An artist is engrossed in his art so perfectly +that when he stands before his canvas no world exists but the world +of his imagination. Do you suppose me to be affected because you +sit somewhere in the background, smoking over the fire? Oh, no! I +trust I have more capacity to concentrate!"</p> +<p>He shrugged his shoulders to the ears; he raised his eyebrows in +the very elaboration of indifference.</p> +<p>Blake, hot as he in pride or anger, caught sudden fire.</p> +<p>"Upon my soul, you're damned complimentary! I think, if you have +no objection, I'll be wishing you good-day!" He picked up his hat, +and strode to the door.</p> +<a name="look"></a> +<center><img src="images/ill154.jpg" width="400" height="601" alt= +""LOOK! THIS IS WHAT I SHALL DO. THIS!""></center> +<h5>"LOOK! THIS IS WHAT I SHALL DO. THIS!"</h5> +<p>The action was so abrupt, the offence so real, that it sobered +Max. With a sudden collapse of pride, he wheeled round.</p> +<p>"Ned! Oh, Ned!"</p> +<p>But the banging of the outer door was his only answer; and he +drew back, his face fallen to a sudden blankness of expression, his +hand going out as if for support to the tattered canvas.</p> +<p>Minutes passed—how many or how few he made no attempt to +reckon—then a tap fell on the door and his blood leaped, +leaped and dropped back to a sick pulsation of disappointment, as +the door opened and Jacqueline's fair head appeared.</p> +<p>For an instant a fierce resentment at this new intrusion fired +him, then the absorbing need for human sympathy welled up, drowning +all else.</p> +<p>"Mademoiselle," he cried out, "I am the most unhappy person in +all the world; I have tried to make a picture and failed, and I +have quarrelled with my best friend!"</p> +<p>Jacqueline nodded sagely. "That, M. Max, is my excuse for +intruding. Of the picture, of course, I know nothing"—she +shrugged expressively—"but of the quarrel I understand +all—having passed M. Blake upon the stairs!"</p> +<p>At any other moment Max would have resented in swift and +explicit terms this probing of his private concerns; but the +soreness at his heart was too acute to permit of pride.</p> +<p>"Then you are sorry for me, mademoiselle?"</p> +<p>"Yes, monsieur!"</p> +<p>"Because of my spoiled picture?" Waywardness flickered up +momentarily.</p> +<p>"No, monsieur!"</p> +<p>"Then why?"</p> +<p>Jacqueline glanced up swiftly, then dropped her eyes.</p> +<p>"Because, monsieur—being but a woman—I say to myself +'life is long, and other pictures may be painted; but with +love—or friendship—'"</p> +<p>"Mademoiselle, that is sufficient! You are charming—you +are sympathetic—- but, like many others, you place too great +a value upon those words 'love' and 'friendship.' It is like this! +If I quarrel with my friend it is doubtless sad, but it only +affects myself; if, on the contrary, I paint a bad picture I am +making a blot upon a beautiful world!"</p> +<p>"And what of the heart, monsieur? May there not be sad stains +upon the heart—even if no eyes see them?"</p> +<p>"Now, mademoiselle, you are talking sentiment!"</p> +<p>"And you, monsieur, are materialistic?" For a second a flash of +mischief showed in the blue eyes.</p> +<p>Max stiffened his shoulders; made brave show to hide the +detestable ache in his soul.</p> +<p>"Yes, mademoiselle," he said. "I think, without pride, I may +claim to see life wholly, without idealization."</p> +<p>Quite unexpectedly Jacqueline clapped her hands and laughed, +stepping close to him with an engaging air of mystery.</p> +<p>"Then all is well! I have a physic for all your ills!"</p> +<p>He looked distrustful.</p> +<p>"A physic?"</p> +<p>"This, monsieur—that you put aside the great sorrow of +your picture, and the little sorrow of your friend—and step +across and partake of <i>déjeuner</i> with Lucien and me. A +very special <i>déjeuner</i>, I assure you; no less than a +<i>poulet bonne femme</i>, cooked with a care—"</p> +<p>She threw out her hands in an ecstasy of expression, a portrayal +of the artless greed that had more than once brought a smile to the +boy's lips. But this time no amusement was called up; disgust rose +strong within him and, accompanying it, a certainty that were +Jacqueline's chicken to be laid before him, he must assuredly choke +with the first morsel. One does not eat when one has failed in +one's art—or quarrelled with one's best friend!</p> +<p>"Mademoiselle," he said, unsteadily, "you are kind—and I +am not without appreciation. But to-day I have no +appetite—food does not call to me. Doubtless, there are days +when M. Cartel cannot eat." He strove to force a laugh.</p> +<p>Jacqueline looked humorously grave.</p> +<p>"When Lucien cannot work, monsieur, he eats the more! It is only +on the days when work flows from him that I am compelled to drag +him to the table—those days or, perhaps, the days—" She +stopped discreetly.</p> +<p>"What days, mademoiselle?"</p> +<p>For the gratification of a curiosity he condemned, Max put the +question.</p> +<p>"Oh, monsieur, when some little affair arises upon which he and +I dispute—when some cloud, as it were, darkens the sun." She +continued to look down demurely; then quickly she looked up again. +"But I waste your time! And, besides, I have not finished what I +would say."</p> +<p>"Oh, mademoiselle, I beg—"</p> +<p>"It is not of the <i>poulet</i> that I would speak, monsieur! I +understand that artists are not all alike; and that, whereas bad +work gives Lucien an appetite, it gives you a disgust! Still, you +are a philosopher, and will allow others to eat, even if you will +not eat yourself."</p> +<p>Max looked bewildered.</p> +<p>"Good!" Jacqueline clapped her hands again softly. "I knew I +would find success! I said I would find success!"</p> +<p>"But, mademoiselle, I do not understand."</p> +<p>"No, monsieur! Neither did M. Blake, when I met him upon the +stairs, and told him of my <i>poulet</i>. He also, it seems, had +lost his appetite. Your picture must have been truly bad!"</p> +<p>She discreetly toyed with her belt during the accepted space of +time in which a brain can conceive—a heart leap—to an +overmastering joy; then she looked again at Max.</p> +<p>"It is a little idea of my own, monsieur, that you and M. +Édouard should make the acquaintance of my Lucien. M. +Édouard already consents; I hope that you, +monsieur—"</p> +<p>For answer, Max caught her hand. From that moment he loved +her—her prettiness, her mischief, her humanity.</p> +<p>"Mademoiselle! I do not understand—and I do +understand!"</p> +<p>"But you will come, monsieur?"</p> +<p>"I will eat your chicken, mademoiselle—even to the +bones!"</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_XVIII'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">COMRADESHIP in its broader sense is Bohemianism +at its best; Bohemianism, not as it is imagined by the +<i>dilettante</i>—a thing of picturesque penury and exotic +vice—but a spontaneous intermingling of personalities, an +understanding, a fraternity as purely a gift of the gods as love or +beauty.</div> +<p>It is true that the sense of regained happiness beat strong in +the mind of Max when he followed Jacqueline into her unpicturesque +living-room with its sparse, cheap furniture, its piano and its gas +stove, and that the happiness budded and blossomed like a flower in +the sun at the one swift glance exchanged with Blake; but even had +these factors not been present, he must still have been sensible of +the pretty touch of hospitality patent in the girl's manner the +moment she crossed her own threshold, conscious of the friendly +smile of M. Lucien Cartel, typical artist, typical Frenchman of the +southern provinces—short, swarthy, alive from his coarse +black hair to the square tips of his fingers. It was in the +air—the sense of good-will—the desire for conviviality; +and in the first greeting, the first hand-shake, the relations of +the party were established.</p> +<p>But the true note of this Bohemianism is not so much spontaneous +friendship as a spontaneous capacity for the interchange of +thought—that instant opening of mind to mind, when place +becomes of slight, and time of no importance.</p> +<p>Such an atmosphere was created by M. Lucien Cartel in his poor +Montmartre <i>appartement</i>, and under its spell Max and Blake +fell as surely, as luxuriously as they might have fallen under the +spell of a summer day. It was not that M. Cartel was brilliant; his +only capacity for brilliance lay in his strong, square hands; but +he was a good fellow and possessed of a philosophy that at once +challenged and interested. For Church and State he had a wide +contempt, a scoffing raillery, a candid blasphemy that outraged +orthodoxy: for humanity and for his art he owned an enthusiasm +touching on the sublime. Upon every subject—the meanest and +the most profound—he held an opinion and aired it with superb +frankness and incredible fluency. So it was that, when the +<i>poulet bonne femme</i> had been picked to the bones and +Jacqueline had retired to some sanctum whence the clatter of plates +and the sound of running water told of domestic duties, the three +pushed their chairs back from the table and fell to talk.</p> +<p>Precisely how they talked, precisely what they talked of in that +pleasant period subsequent to the meal is not to be related. They +thrashed the paths of morality, science, religion until their +contending voices filled the room and the tobacco smoke hung in +clouds about them. They talked until the last drop of Jacqueline's +coffee had been drained; they talked until Jacqueline herself came +silently back into the room and seated herself by Cartel's side, +slipping her hand into his with artless spontaneity.</p> +<p>Morality, science, religion, and then, in natural sequence, +art—music! The brain of M. Cartel tingled, his fingers +twitched as the rival merits of composers—the varying schools +of thought—were touched upon, warmed to, or torn by +contending opinions. One end only was conceivable to that last +discussion. The moment arrived when the brain of M. Cartel cried +vehemently for expression, when his hand, imprisoned in the small +fingers of Jacqueline, was no longer to be restrained, when he +sprang from his chair and rushed to the piano, his coarse black +hair an untidy mat, his ugly face alight with God's gift of +inspiration.</p> +<p>'What had he said? Was this, then, not +magnificent—wonderful?'</p> +<p>And, seating himself, he unloosed into the common room a beauty +of sound more adorning than the rarest devices of the decorator's +art—a mesh of delicate harmonies that snared the imaginations +of his three listeners and sent them winging to the very borders of +their varying realms.</p> +<p>M. Lucien Cartel in every-day life and to the casual observer +was a good fellow with a fund of enthusiasm and a ready tongue; M. +Lucien Cartel to the woman he loved and in the enchanted world of +his art was a mortal imbued warmly and surely with a spark of the +divinity he derided. There is no niggardliness in Bohemia: it made +him as happy to give of his music as it made his listeners to +receive, with the consequence that time was dethroned and that four +people sat entranced, claiming nothing from the world outside, more +than content in the knowledge that the world had no eyes for the +doings of a little room on the heights of Montmartre.</p> +<p>From opera to opera M. Cartel wandered, now humming a passage +under his breath in accompaniment to his playing, again raising his +soft, southern voice in an abandonment of enthusiasm.</p> +<p>It was following close upon some such enthusiastic moment that +Max rose, crossed the room, and taking a violin and bow from where +they lay upon a wooden bench against the wall, carried them +silently to the piano.</p> +<p>As silently M. Cartel received them and, lifting the violin, +tucked it under his chin and raised the bow.</p> +<p>There is no need to detail the magic that followed upon that +simple action. The world—even his own Paris—has never +heard of M. Lucien Cartel, and cares not to know of the pieces that +he played, the degree of his technique, the truth of his +interpretation; but when at last the hand that held the violin +dropped to his side and, lifting his right arm, he wiped his damp +forehead with the sleeve of his coat, the faces of his audience +were pale as the faces of those who have looked upon hidden places, +and in the eyes of the little Jacqueline there were tears.</p> +<p>A moment of silence; then M. Cartel laid down his violin and +laughed. The laugh broke the spell: Jacqueline, with a childish cry +of excitement, flew across the room and, throwing her arms about +his neck, kissed him with unashamed fervor; Blake and Max pressed +round the piano, and in an instant the room was humming again to +the sound of voices, and some one made the astounding discovery +that it was five o'clock.</p> +<p>This was Blake's opportunity—the opportunity loved beyond +all others of the Irishman, when it is permissible to offer +hospitality. The idea came to him as an inspiration, and was seized +upon as such. Eager as a boy, he laid one hand on Max's shoulder, +the other on that of M. Cartel.</p> +<p>'He had a suggestion to make! One that admitted of no refusal! +M. Cartel had entertained them regally; he must suffer them to make +some poor return. There was a certain little <i>café</i> +where the <i>chef</i> knew his business and the wine really was +wine—' He looked from one face to another for approval, and +perhaps it was but natural that his eyes should rest last and +longest on the face of Max.</p> +<p>So it was arranged. A dinner is a question readily dealt with in +the quarter of Montmartre, and soon the four—laughing, +talking, arguing—were hurrying down the many steps of the +Escalier de Sainte-Marie, bent upon the enjoyment of the hour.</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_XIX'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XIX</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">THEY dined with a full measure of satisfaction; +for with his invitation to a feast, your Parisian accepts an +obligation to bring forth his best in gayety, in conversation, in +good-will; and it might well have happened that Blake, spending ten +times as much money upon guests of his own world, might have lacked +the glow, the sense of success, that filled him in the giving of +this dinner to an unknown musician and a little blonde-haired +<i>Montmartroise</i>.</div> +<p>They dined; and then, because the winds were still wintry and +coffee could not yet be sipped outside <i>café</i> doors, +they betook themselves to the little theatre of the 'Trianon +Lyrique' on the Boulevard Rochechouart, where for an infinitesimal +sum the <i>bourgeoisie</i> may sit in the stalls and hear light +opera conscientiously sung.</p> +<p>As it was a gala evening, Blake reserved a box, and the little +Jacqueline sat in the place of honor, neat and dainty to the point +of perfection, with a small black jacket fitting closely to her +figure, and a bunch of violets, costing ten centimes, pinned +coquettishly into her lace <i>jabot</i>. They sat through the +performance in a happy mood of toleration, applauding whenever +applause might be bestowed, generously silent when anything tempted +adverse criticism; and between the acts they smoked and drank +liqueurs in company with the good Montmartre shopkeepers—the +soldiers—the young clerks and the young girls who formed the +crowd in the lounge.</p> +<p>But all things end; the curtain fell on the last act of <i>Les +Cloches de Corneville</i>, and not without a pleasant, passing +sigh, the four left the theatre.</p> +<p>The boulevard teemed with life as they made their way into the +open; a certain intoxication seemed blown along the thoroughfare on +the light spring wind; a restless energy tingled in the blood.</p> +<p>On the steps of the little theatre, Blake looked back at his +party.</p> +<p>'The night was young! What would they say to supper?'</p> +<p>Jacqueline's eyes sparkled, but she looked at M. Cartel, and +regretfully M. Cartel shook his head.</p> +<p>'Alas! He was expecting a friend—a composer, to call upon +him before midnight.'</p> +<p>Jacqueline betrayed no disappointment; with a charming air she +echoed the regret, the shake of the head, and slipped a confiding +hand through M. Cartel's arm.</p> +<p>Then followed the leave-taking—the thanks and +disclaimers—the promises of future meetings—and at last +the lovers moved out into the crowd—M. Cartel, cheery and +brisk, humming the tunes of '<i>Les Cloches</i>,' the little +Jacqueline clinging to his arm, smiling up into his ugly face.</p> +<p>Max watched them for a moment with a deep intentness, then +wheeled round swiftly and caught Blake's arm.</p> +<p>"Ned! Take me somewhere! I would forget myself!"</p> +<p>"What troubles you, boy? Not the thought of the picture?"</p> +<p>"No! A something of no consequence. Do not question me. Be kind +to me, and take me where I can see life and forget myself."</p> +<p>"Where will I take you?"</p> +<p>"To some place of gayety—where no one thinks."</p> +<p>"Very well! We'll go over and have supper at the Rat Mort. You +won't be over-troubled with thought there. We can sit in a corner +and observe, and I give you my word there will be no encounters +with old friends this time! I'll be blind and deaf and dumb if +anything is washed up from the past!"</p> +<p>Guiding the boy across the crowded roadway, he passed through +the narrow door and up the steep stair that ends so abruptly into +the long, low supper-room of the Rat Mort.</p> +<p>Max felt the abruptness of this entry, as so many climbers of +the ladder-like stairs have felt it before him; and a dazed +sensation seized upon him as the wild <i>Ztigane</i> music of the +stringed orchestra beat suddenly upon his ears and the intense +white light struck upon his sight.</p> +<p>He felt it as others have felt it—the excitement, the +consciousness of an emotional atmosphere—as he followed Blake +down the dazzingly bright room. It was in the air, as it had been +at the Bal Tabarin.</p> +<p>As they seated themselves, the barbaric music ceased; the +orchestra broke forth afresh with a light Parisian waltz, and down +between the lines of tables came a negro and a +negress—properties of the place, as were the glasses and the +table linen—waltzing with the pliant suppleness, the +conscious sensuality of their race, and close behind them followed +a second couple—a Spaniard, restless and lithe, small of +stature and pallid of face, and a young Spanish girl of splendid +physique.</p> +<p>Max sat silent, attentive to this dance, while Blake ordered +supper; but when the wine was brought, he lifted his glass and +drank, as if some strong sensation had dried his throat.</p> +<p>Blake turned and looked at him.</p> +<p>"Well? Is it amusing?"</p> +<p>"It is—and it is not. Those black creatures are +extraordinary. They are repulsive—like figures in a +nightmare."</p> +<p>"Oh! Repulsive, are they? And what about a certain picture we +once looked at—when I was swept off the face of the earth for +using that same word? I believe, you know, that points of view are +changing! I believe I'm coming to part two of my little book! These +niggers aren't a bit more disgusting than the monkey sucking the +fruit."</p> +<p>Max glanced at him, laughed a trifle self-consciously and drank +some more wine. "Let us forget monkeys and little books and all +such stupidities. There is a pretty woman over there! Make me a +story concerning her." He nodded toward a table in the middle of +the room.</p> +<p>Blake, looking, saw a slim woman in white, whose large hat threw +a becoming shadow on auburn hair and red-brown eyes.</p> +<p>"Ah, now," he said, thoughtfully, "you've given me too much to +do! At a first glance I'd say she's just the ordinary better-class +<i>cocotte</i>; but at a second glance it seems to me I'd pause. +There's something about the eyes—there's something about the +mouth that puzzles me. You'll have to wait, my boy, and let fate +tell you your fairy tale!"</p> +<p>Trained in the consciousness of regard, the woman they discussed +looked across at them as Blake ceased, and the flicker of a smile +touched her lips—a smile of interest in which there lurked no +hint of invitation.</p> +<p>"Ah, wasn't I right! She discriminates—our auburn lady! +We'll see something interesting before the night is out, mark my +words!"</p> +<p>They half forgot her and her possible story in the hour that +followed, though Max noted that the woman who wanders from party to +party at the Rat Mort, distributing roses, paused twice by her +table and spoke to her, each time departing without unburdening +herself of her wares; also, he noted that the pallid little +Spaniard, who had been scattering his attentions among the ladies +unprovided with companions, came and bowed before her, and that, +contrary to her impression of aloofness, she rose and danced a +waltz with him.</p> +<p>At this episode of the dance, Blake's eyes as well as the boy's +were attracted; and, as she glided up and down between the tables, +cool, unmoved, seemingly indifferent to the world about her, his +interest reawakened, and he cast a sidelong glance at Max.</p> +<p>"Wait!" he said. "When you see that guarded look in a woman's +eyes, you may always know she's expecting something."</p> +<p>Even as he spoke, she returned to her solitary table, dismissing +the Spaniard with an inclination of the head and, as she seated +herself, both observers saw a change pass over her face—saw +her gaze narrow and turn toward the door—saw a faint flush +touch her cheeks and recede, leaving them paler than before.</p> +<p>It was a controlled emotion, almost +imperceptible—differing in essence from either the latent +violence of the woman Lize or the artless impulsiveness of the +little Jacqueline; but with certain intuition it sent Max's glance +winging to the door of the supper-room, assured that some issue in +the subtle war of sex was about to be fought out.</p> +<p>A new party was entering the room—a small dark +<i>Parisienne</i>, bringing in her wake two Englishmen—one +brown—the other fair, with the accepted Saxon fairness.</p> +<p>Down the long room the little lady came, ushered by obsequious +waiters, the recipient of many glances, admiring or envious; close +behind her followed the brown-haired Englishman and, a little in +the rear, her second cavalier—reserved of demeanor, +distinguished of carriage, obviously upholding the tradition of +<i>sang-froid</i> that clings to his countrymen.</p> +<p>Max's instinct was fully awake now; and when, in passing her +table, the fair man inclined his head to the auburn-haired lady, +the matter merely fitted with his expectations.</p> +<p>What brief emotional past lay in the mists of the unknown, +linking this woman to this man? Nothing was to be read from her +face—no expression of pleasure, none of chagrin; but in her +half-veiled eyes a certain brilliance was observable and her long, +white fingers began softly to drum upon the table in time to the +music.</p> +<p>No explanation was demanded; in a clear, disconcerting flash, +the situation was laid bare. Here was woman desiring the love of +man; woman determined to reap her spoil. It was one issue in the +deathless, relentless struggle—the struggle wherein the +little Jacqueline clung to her M. Cartel, tenacious as the frail +fern to the ungainly rock—wherein Madame Salas had fought +sickness and neglect to protect a fading life. It was a +truth—arresting as truth must ever be; and stricken with a +tingling fear, the boy drove it from him, and turned his eyes from +the fateful, shadowed face and the light, drumming fingers.</p> +<p>A new dance had begun: the grinning negro had seized upon the +Spanish girl and was whirling her down the room to the laughter of +the company, while her countryman looked round the tables in +indifferent search for a partner.</p> +<p>His glance skimmed the white figure at the lonely table, the +eyes of the woman were lifted for an instant, revealing a flash of +their new light, and in a moment the two were dancing again, moving +up and down the room, in and out between the tables with their +original easy grace; but this time the woman's lips were parted and +her eyelids drooped in a clever simulation of enjoyment.</p> +<p>Up and down they glided, passing and repassing the table where +the little dark lady supped with her two cavaliers, but never once +did the woman raise her eyes to the Englishman's or seem aware of +the cold, close glance that followed her movements; but once, as +the music faded to silence, and her white skirt swept past his +table for the last time, she murmured something softly in Spanish +to her partner, and allowed one level, effective glance to fall on +his pallid face.</p> +<p>That was all; the waltz stopped, she disengaged herself gently, +and walked back alone to her table.</p> +<p>This waltz was followed by another and yet another, and again +she fell to her old attitude of lowered eyes and drumming +fingers.</p> +<p>The Englishman at his table made pretence to eat his supper, +poured himself out a fresh glass of champagne, drank it, and with a +suddenly achieved decision, gave a cool laugh of excuse, rose and +walked straight toward the solitary figure.</p> +<p>Max, momentarily <i>clairvoyant</i>, felt the violent heartbeat, +the caught breath, that told the woman of his presence—felt +to a nicety the control of her expression, the rigidity of her +body, as she slowly raised her head and met his eyes; then he saw +the man bow, making some suggestion, and he leaned back in his seat +with a little sigh of satisfaction as the woman smiled and rose and +the two began to dance.</p> +<p>Both tall above the ordinary, they were a well-suited couple, +and a certain pleasure filled the beholder's mind as they moved +decorously up and down the long aisle formed by the double row of +tables—the man entirely indifferent to his surroundings, +dancing in this Parisian supper-place precisely as he would have +danced in a London ball-room; the woman following his every +movement with a passivity—a oneness—that gave no hint +of the definite purpose at work within her brain.</p> +<p>The dance over, he led her back to her table, drew her chair +forward with elaborate politeness, bowed and, with a murmured word, +strolled back to his own table.</p> +<p>So sure had been her triumph, so abrupt its collapse, that +Max—smoking his cigarette, sipping his coffee—turned, +with a little exclamation, to Blake.</p> +<p>"Have you observed, <i>mon ami</i>? Oh, why was that?"</p> +<p>Blake was carefully lighting a cigar.</p> +<p>"'Twould be hard to say," he answered, meditatively. "In a +matter of emotion, an Englishman has a way of getting frightened of +himself. This particular specimen has come over to Paris to +play—and he doesn't fancy fire for a toy!"</p> +<p>"And what will happen? What will be the end?" Max had laid his +cigarette aside; his fingers were interlaced, sure sign that his +emotions were running high; and his eyes, when he fixed them on +Blake's, held a touch of their rare sombre fire.</p> +<p>"How will it end, you say? Guess, my child!"</p> +<p>Max shook his head.</p> +<p>"Well, boy, Eve will be Eve to the end of time—and Adam +will be Adam!"</p> +<p>"You mean—? Oh, but look!"</p> +<p>This last was called forth by the rising from table of the +trio—the quiet passing from the room of the fair man in the +train of his friend and the little dark lady.</p> +<p>It seemed so final, so sharp an answer to his question, that Max +could feel—as things personal and close—the sick +sinking of the heart, the accompanying whiteness of cheek that must +fall upon the woman sitting immovable and alone.</p> +<p>"I am sorry!" he cried. "Oh, but I am sorry!"</p> +<p>Blake looked thoughtfully at the tip of his cigar.</p> +<p>"Wait!"</p> +<p>Even as he said it, the fair man reappeared alone. "What did I +say? Eve will be Eve—Adam will be Adam!"</p> +<p>But Max was not listening. Excited, lifted beyond himself, he +was watching the Englishman thread a way between the +tables—watching the woman thrill to his approach without +lifting an eyelid, moving a muscle. Rigid as a statue she sat, +until he was quite close; then, curiously, as if nature demanded +some symbol of the fires within, her lips opened and she began to +hum the tune the orchestra was playing.</p> +<p>It was a strange form of self-expression, and as she yielded to +it her cheeks burned suddenly and her eyes shone between their +narrowed lids.</p> +<p>She did not speak when the man seated himself at her table, she +did not even look up; she went on humming in a strange ecstatic +reverie, but she smiled—a very slow, a very subtle smile.</p> +<p>A waiter came, and wine was brought; she drank, laid down her +glass and continued her strange song. The seller of flowers hovered +about the table, smiling at the Englishman, and laid a sheaf of +pink roses on the white cloth; still the humming continued, though +mechanically the woman's long, white fingers gathered up the +flowers and held them against her face. At last, unexpectedly, she +raised her head, looked at the man whose eyes were now fixed in +fascination upon her, looked away beyond him, and, lifting her +voice from its murmuring note, began to sing aloud.</p> +<p>It was a scene curious beyond description—the hot, white +room, the many painted faces, the many jewelled hands, the +grotesque black forms of the negro dancers, and in the midst a +woman hypnotized by her own triumph into absolute oblivion.</p> +<p>She sat with the roses in her hands, her eyes looking into +space, while her voice, pure and singularly true, gathered strength +until gradually the chattering of voices and the clinking of +glasses lessened, and the musicians lowered their music to a +deliberate accompaniment.</p> +<p>Nowhere but in Paris could such a scene take place; but here, +although the faces turned toward the singer's were flushed with +wine, they were touched with comprehension. The gathered +roses—the high, sweet voice—the rapt face composed a +picture, and even when his eyes are glazed, your Parisian is a +connoisseur.</p> +<p>The last note quivered into silence; a little ripple of applause +followed; and with the same concentrated, hypnotized gaze, the +woman's eyes turned from space and rested again upon the man.</p> +<p>It was the glance ancient as tradition—significant as +fate. At his distant table, Max rose and laid a trembling hand upon +Blake's arm.</p> +<p>"Ned! May we go?"</p> +<p>"Oh, why? The night is young!"</p> +<p>"Please!"</p> +<p>"But why?"</p> +<p>"I desire it."</p> +<p>Blake looked more closely, and his expression changed.</p> +<p>"Why, you're ill, boy!" he said. "You're as white as a +sheet!"</p> +<p>Max tried to laugh. "It is the heat—nothing more."</p> +<p>"Of course it is! The place is like a hot-house! You want a +breath of air!"</p> +<p>Again Max tried to laugh, but it was a laugh oddly broken.</p> +<p>"That is it!" he said. "I want the air."</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_XX'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XX</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">MAX passed down the long, low room, blind to the +white light, blind to the flowers and faces, deaf to the voices and +laughter and swaying sound of stringed instruments.</div> +<p>One glance he permitted himself—one only—at the +table where the man and woman still looked into each other's eyes +and where the sheaf of pink roses still shed its incense: then he +passed down the steep, short stairs, halting at the door of the +<i>café</i>, hesitating between two +atmospheres—outside, the sharp street lights, the cold, +wind-swept pavement—within, the hot air, the close sense of +humanity, powerful as a narcotic.</p> +<p>"Ned!" he said, looking back for Blake, "I need a favor. Will +you grant it?"</p> +<p>"A hundred!" Blake was buttoning up his coat.</p> +<p>"Then wish me good-night here. I would go home alone."</p> +<p>"Alone? What nonsense! You don't think I'd desert you when +you're seedy? What you want is air. We'll take a stroll along the +boulevards."</p> +<p>Max shook his head. He seemed rapt in his own thoughts; his pale +face was full of purpose.</p> +<p>"I am quite well—now."</p> +<p>"Then all the more reason for the stroll! Come along!"</p> +<p>But the boy drew away. "Another time! Not to-night."</p> +<p>"Why not?"</p> +<p>"I cannot tell you."</p> +<p>Blake looked more closely at the nervously set lips, the dark +eyebrows drawn into a frown.</p> +<p>"I say, boy, it hasn't got on your nerves—this place? I +know what a queer little beggar you are."</p> +<p>"No; it is not that."</p> +<p>"Then what? Another inspiration?"</p> +<p>"No."</p> +<p>"Very well! I won't probe. I'm old enough to know that the human +animal is inexplicable. Good-night—and good luck! I'll see +you to-morrow."</p> +<p>"To-morrow, yes!"</p> +<p>There was relief in the readiness of the response, relief in the +quick thrusting forth of the boy's hand.</p> +<p>"Good-night!"</p> +<p>"Good-night! And go to bed when you get home. You're very +white."</p> +<p>"Yes."</p> +<p>His voice seemed to recede further into its distant absorbed +note, his fingers were withdrawn from Blake's close pressure with a +haste that was unusual, and turning away, he crossed the boulevard +as though the vision of some spectre had lent wings to his +feet.</p> +<p>No impression of romance touched him as he hastened up the +narrow streets toward his home. He had no eyes for the secret +shadows, the mysterious corners usually so fruitful of suggestion; +his whole perceptions were turned inward; his self-consciousness +was a thing so living, so acute that he went forward as one bereft +of sight or hearing.</p> +<p>Reaching the foot of the Escalier de Sainte-Marie, he quickened +his already hurried pace, and began to run up the uneven steps. The +door of his house stood open, and he plunged into the dark well of +the hall without waiting to strike a match. By instinct his hand +found the smooth banister, and he began his climb of the +stairs.</p> +<p>Up he went, and up, living in himself with that perfect +absorption that comes in rare and violent moments—moments of +sorrow, of pleasure or, it may be, of surprise, when a new thought +suspends the action of the brain.</p> +<p>In obedience to some unconsidered instinct he softened his steps +on reaching the fifth floor, and crept across the bare corridor to +the door of his own rooms.</p> +<p>He entered quietly, and still ignoring the need for light, +groped a way to his bedroom.</p> +<p>It was the room that had once belonged to Madame Salas; and, +like the kitchen, it looked upon the network of roofs and chimneys +that spread away at the rear of the house. Now, as he entered, +closed the door, and stood leaning against it, breathing quickly, +these roofs and chimneys, seen through the uncurtained window, made +a picturesque medley of lines and curves startlingly distinct +against the star-powdered sky.</p> +<p>The ethereal light of a Parisian spring night filled the room, +touching the white walls—the white bed—a bowl of +flowers upon the dressing-table and its fairy-like reflection in +the mirror—to a subtly insidious fragility that verged upon +the unreal; and the boy, quivering to his tangled sensations, felt +this unreality quicken his self-distrust, touch and goad him as a +spur.</p> +<p>Physical action became imperative; he walked unsteadily across +the room, pulled the serge curtains across the window, abruptly +shutting out both stars and roofs, and turning to the +dressing-table, groped for matches and struck a light.</p> +<p>Four candles stood in an old silver candelabra; he touched them +with the match-flame, they flickered, spat, rose to a steady glow. +In the new light the room looked warmer, more in touch with human +things and, moving with the inevitableness of a pendulum, his mind +swung to a definite desire.</p> +<p>Impulse seized him; questions, doubts, fears were submerged; +trembling to a loosed emotion, he ran across the room and bent over +his narrow bed.</p> +<p>He was alone now; alone in the absolutely primal sense of the +word, when the individual ceases to act even to himself. The +instinct he had denied was dominating him, and he was yielding with +a sense of intoxication.</p> +<p>With hands that shook in excitement, he raised the mattress and, +searching beneath, drew forth an object—a flat packet, bound +and sealed—the packet, in fine, that had lain so deep and +snug in the pocket of his overcoat on the night of his entry into +Paris.</p> +<p>His hand—his whole body—was trembling as he brought +it to light and walked back to the dressing-table.</p> +<p>There, he pulled forward a chair and sat down before the mirror. +For a full minute he sat, as if enchained, then at length—in +obedience to the force that was dominating him—his fingers +crept under the string, there came to the ear a faint, sharp +crackle, and the seals broke.</p> +<p>The seals broke, a gasp slipped from between his parted lips, +and in his hands lay the symbol of all the imaginings, all the +pretty mockery wherewith he purported to cheat nature.</p> +<p>It lay in his hands—a simple thing, potent as simple +things ever are. No rare jewel, no state paper, merely the long, +thick strands of a woman's hair.</p> +<p>The paper fell away, and he lifted it shakingly to the light. +Stiff-coiled from its long imprisonment, it unwound slowly, +allowing the candle-light to filch strange hues from its dark +length—glints of bronze, tinges of copper-color that gleamed +elusively from the one end, where it had been roughly clipped from +the head, to the other, where it still curled and twisted into +little tendrils like a living thing.</p> +<p>A woman's hair! A weapon old as time—as light, as +destructible, as possessed of subtle powers as woman herself. +Strand upon strand, he drew it out, following the glints of light +with dazed, questioning eyes.</p> +<p>A woman's hair! A woman's hair, woven to blind men's eyes!</p> +<p>Max leaned forward, quivering to a new impulse, and, raising the +heavy coils, twisted them swiftly about his head. With the action, +the blood rushed into his cheeks, a flame of excitement sprang into +his eyes and, drawing the candles closer, he peered into the +mirror.</p> +<p>There are moments when a retrospective impression is +overwhelming—when a scent, a sight, a sound can quicken +things dead—things buried out of mind.</p> +<p>Max looked and, looking, lost himself. The boy with his bravery +of ignorance, his frankly arrogant egoism was effaced as might be +the writing from a slate, and in his place was a sexless creature, +rarely beautiful, with parted, tremulous lips and wide eyes in +which subtle, crowding thoughts struggled for expression.</p> +<p>He looked, he lost himself, and losing, heard nothing of a +sound, faint and undefined, that stole from the region of the outer +door—nothing of a light step in the little hall outside his +room. Leaning closer to the mirror, still gazing absorbed, he began +to twist the short waves of his own hair more closely into the +strands that resembled them so nearly in texture and hue.</p> +<p>It was then, quietly—with the appalling quietude that can +appertain to a fateful action—that the handle of the bedroom +door clicked, the door itself opened, and the little +Jacqueline—more child than ever in the throes of a swift +amazement—stood revealed, a lighted candle in one hand, in +the other a china mug.</p> +<p>At sound of the entry, Max had wheeled round, his hands still +automatically holding up the strands of hair; at the vision that +confronted him, a look of rage flashed over his face—the +violent, unrestrained rage of the creature taken unawares.</p> +<p>At the look the little Jacqueline quailed, her lips opened and +drooped, her right hand was lowered, until the candlestick hung at +a perilous angle and the wax began to drip upon the floor.</p> +<p>"Oh!" she cried, "and I thought to find the room empty! +<i>Pardon! Pardon!</i> Oh, <i>pardon, mons—madame!</i>"</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_XXI'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XXI</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">IT was spoken—the one word, so brief, so +significant; and Jacqueline stood hesitating, pleading, equally +ready to rush forward or to fly.</div> +<p>At last Max spoke.</p> +<p>"Why do you call me that?"</p> +<p>The tone in which the question was put was extremely low, the +gray eyes were steady almost to coldness, the strong, slight +fingers began mechanically to fold up the hair, strand upon +strand.</p> +<p>Jacqueline's candle swayed, until a stream of the melted wax +guttered to the floor.</p> +<p>"Because—"</p> +<p>"Yes?"</p> +<p>"Because—oh, because—because—I have always +known!"</p> +<p>Then indeed a silence fell. Jacqueline, too petrified to +embellish her statement, let her voice trail off into silence; Max, +folding—mechanically folding—the strands of hair, +offered neither disclaimer nor acceptance. With the force of the +inevitable the confession had struck home, and deep within him was +the strong soul's respect for the inevitable.</p> +<p>"You have always known?" he said, slowly, when the silence had +fulfilled itself. "You have always known—that I am a +woman?"</p> +<p>It sounded abominably crude, abominably banal—this tardy +question, and never had Max felt less feminine than in the uttering +of it.</p> +<p>The lips of Jacqueline quivered, her blue eyes brimmed with +tears of distress.</p> +<p>"Oh, I could wish myself dead!"</p> +<p>"And why?"</p> +<p>"Because I have made myself an imbecile!"</p> +<p>The humiliation, the self-contempt were so candid, so human, +that something changed in Max's face and the icy rigidity of pose +relaxed.</p> +<p>"Come here!"</p> +<p>The guilty child to the life, Jacqueline came timidly across the +room, the candlestick still drooping unhappily from her right hand, +the mysterious mug clutched in her left.</p> +<p>Max's first action was to take possession of both, and to set +them side by side upon the dressing-table. The candle Jacqueline +delivered up in silence, but as the mug was wrested from her, she +cried out in sudden vindictiveness:</p> +<p>"And that—look you—that is the cause of all! It was +Lucien's idea! I served a cup of <i>bouillon</i> to him and to his +friend at midnight, for they had talked much; and finding it good, +nothing would serve but I must place a cup also for Monsieur Max, +to await him on his return. Alas! Alas!"</p> +<p>Max pushed the cup away, as if to remove a side issue.</p> +<p>"Answer the question I put to you! You know that I am a +woman?"</p> +<p>"Yes; I know."</p> +<p>"Since when? Since the night at the Bal Tabarin?"</p> +<p>"Oh, but no!"</p> +<p>"Since the morning we met upon this doorstep?"</p> +<p>"No."</p> +<p>"Since the morning you made the coffee for M. Blake and me?"</p> +<p>Jacqueline was twisting the buckle of her belt in nervous +perturbation.</p> +<p>"Answer me! It was since that morning?"</p> +<p>"No! Yes! Oh, it was before that morning. Oh, +madame—monsieur!" She wrung her hands in a confusion of +misery. "Oh, do not torture me! I cannot tell you how it +was—or when. I cannot explain. You know how these things +come—from here!" She lightly touched the place where she +imagined her heart to be.</p> +<p>Max, sitting quiet, made no betrayal of the agony of +apprehension at work within.</p> +<p>"And how many others have had this—instinct? M. Cartel? M. +Blake?"</p> +<p>So surprising, so grotesque seemed the questions, that +self-confidence rushed suddenly in upon Jacqueline. She threw back +her head and laughed—laughed until her old inconsequent self +was restored to power.</p> +<p>"Lucien! Monsieur Édouard! Oh, <i>la, la</i>! How +droll!"</p> +<p>"Then they do not know?"</p> +<p>"Know? Are they not men? And are men not children?"</p> +<p>The vast superiority—the wordly wisdom in the babyish face +was at once so comical and so reassuring that irresistibly Max +laughed too; and at the laugh, the little Jacqueline dropped to her +knees beside the dressing-table and looked up, smiling, +radiant.</p> +<p>"I am forgiven?"</p> +<p>"I suppose so!"</p> +<p>"Then grant me a favor—one favor! Permit me to touch the +beautiful hair!"</p> +<p>Without waiting for the permission, the eager little hands +caught up the coiled strands, and in a moment the candlelight was +again chasing the red tints and the bronze through the dark +waves.</p> +<p>"My faith, but it is beautiful! Beautiful! And what a pity!"</p> +<p>"A pity—?"</p> +<p>"That no man may see it!" For an instant Jacqueline buried her +face in the silky mass; then, like a little bright bird, looked up +again. "A man would go mad for this!"</p> +<p>"For a thing like that? Absurd!"</p> +<p>"Yet a thing like that can demolish Monsieur Max, and leave in +his place—"</p> +<p>"What?"</p> +<p>"How shall I say? His sister?" She looked up anew, disarming in +her naïve candor: and a swift temptation assailed her +listener—the temptation that at times assails the +strongest—the temptation to unburden the mind.</p> +<p>"Jacqueline," Max cried, impetuously, "you speak a great truth +when you say that! We have all of us the two natures—the +brother and the sister! Not one of us is quite woman—not one +of us is all man!"</p> +<p>The thought sped from him, winged and potent; and Jacqueline, +wise in her child's wisdom, offered no comment, put forward no +opinion.</p> +<p>"It is a war," Max cried again, "a relentless, eternal war; for +one nature must conquer, and one must fail. There cannot be two +rulers in the same city."</p> +<p>"No," Jacqueline murmured, discreetly, "that is most true."</p> +<p>"It is. Most true."</p> +<p>"Why, then, was madame adorning herself with her beautiful hair +when I had the unhappiness to enter? Has not madame already waged +her war—and conquered?"</p> +<p>The eyes were full of innocent question, the soft lips perfectly +grave.</p> +<p>Max paused to frame the falsehood that should fit the occasion; +but, like a flood-tide, the frankness, the courage of the boy +nature rose up, and the truth broke forth.</p> +<p>"I thought until to-night, Jacqueline, that the battle was won; +but to-night, while I supped with M. Blake, a little play was +played out before me—a little human play, where real people +played real parts, where the woman clung to her womanhood, as you +cling to yours, and the man to his manhood, as does M. Cartel; +where the stage effects were smiles and glances and eyes and +hair—"</p> +<p>Jacqueline nodded, but said not a word.</p> +<p>"And as I watched, the thought came to me—the mad thought, +that I had, perhaps, lost something—that I had, perhaps, put +something from me. Oh, it was a possession! A possession of some +evil spirit!"</p> +<p>Max sprang from the chair, and began to pace up and down the +shadowed room, while the little Jacqueline, sitting back upon her +heels in a stillness almost Oriental, watched, evolving some +thought of her own.</p> +<p>"And so madame desired to strangle the evil spirit with her +beautiful hair?"</p> +<p>The hurried steps ceased.</p> +<p>"I wished to see the woman in me—and to dismiss her!"</p> +<p>"And was she easily dismissed?"</p> +<p>The new question seemed curiously pregnant. Max heard it, and in +swift response came back again to the dressing-table, took the hair +from Jacqueline's hands and began again to intertwist it with the +boyish locks.</p> +<p>Jacqueline raised herself from her crouching position, the more +easily to gratify her curiosity.</p> +<p>"It is extraordinary—the change!" she murmured. +"Extraordinary! Madame, let us complete it! Let us remove that ugly +coat!" Excitedly, and without permission, she began to free Max of +the boy's coat, while Max yielded with a certain passive +excitement. "And, now, what can we find to substitute? Ah!" She +gave a cry of delight and ran to the bed, over the foot of which +was thrown a faded gold scarf—a strip of rich fabric such as +artists delight in, for which Max had bargained only the day before +in the rue André de Sarte.</p> +<p>"Now the tie! And the ugly collar!" She ran back, the scarf +floating from her arm; and Max, still passive, still held mute by +conflicting sensations, suffered the light fingers to unloose the +wide black tie, to remove the collar, to open a button or two of +the shirt.</p> +<p>"And now the hair!" With lightning-like dexterity, Jacqueline +drew a handful of hairpins from her own head, reduced her short +blonde curls to confusion, and in a moment had brushed the thick +waves of Max's clipped hair upward and secured them into a firm +foundation.</p> +<p>"Now! Now, madame! Close your eyes! I am the magician!"</p> +<p>Max's eyes closed, and the illusion of dead hours rose again, +more vivid, more poignant than before. With the familiar sensation +of deft fingers at work upon the business of hairdressing, a +thousand recollections of countless nights and +mornings—countless preparations and +wearinesses—countless anticipations and disgusts, born with +the placing of each hairpin, the coiling of the +unfamiliar—familiar—weight of hair.</p> +<p>"Now, madame! Is it not a picture?"</p> +<p>With the gesture and pride of an artist, Jacqueline cast the +wide scarf round Max's shoulders and stepped back.</p> +<p>Max's eyes opened, gazing straight into the mirror, and once +again in that night of contrasts, emotion rose paramount.</p> +<p>It was most truly a picture; not the earlier, puzzling +sketch—the anomalous mingling of sex—but the complete +semblance of the woman—the slim neck rising from the golden +folds, the proud head, seeming smaller under its coiled hair than +it had ever appeared in the untidiness of its boy's locks.</p> +<p>"And now, madame, tell me! Is the evil spirit one lightly to be +dismissed?"</p> +<p>All the woman in the little Jacqueline—the creature of +eternal tradition, eternal intrigue—was glorying in her +handiwork, in the consciousness of its potency.</p> +<p>But Max never answered; Max continued to stare into the +glass.</p> +<p>"You will dismiss it, madame?"</p> +<p>Max still stared, a peculiar light of thought shining and +wavering in the gray eyes.</p> +<p>"Madame, you will dismiss it?"</p> +<p>Max turned slowly.</p> +<p>"I will do more, Jacqueline. I will destroy it utterly."</p> +<p>"Madame!"</p> +<p>"I have a great idea."</p> +<p>"Madame!"</p> +<p>"If a spirit—no matter how evil—could be +materialized, it would cease to affect the imagination. I shall +materialize mine!"</p> +<p>"Madame!"</p> +<p>"Yes; I have arrived at a conclusion. I shall render my evil +spirit powerless by materializing it. But I must first have a +promise from you; you must promise me to keep my secret."</p> +<p>"Madame—madame!" Jacqueline stammered.</p> +<p>"You will promise?"</p> +<p>"Yes."</p> +<p>"And how am I to trust you?"</p> +<p>Jacqueline's blue eyes went round and round the room, in search +of some overwhelming proof of her fidelity; then swiftly they +returned to Max's.</p> +<a name="woman"></a> +<center><img src="images/ill186.jpg" width="400" height="619" alt= +"THE COMPLETE SEMBLANCE OF THE WOMAN"></center> +<h5>THE COMPLETE SEMBLANCE OF THE WOMAN</h5> +<p>"Not even to Lucien, madame, shall it be revealed!" And silently +Max nodded, realizing the greatness of the pledge.</p> +<br> +<br> +<p>Many hours later, when all the lights were out in the rue +Müller and all the doors wore closed, the slight figure of the +boy Max might have been seen by any belated wanderer slipping down +the Escalier de Sainte-Marie to post a letter—a letter that +had cost much thought, and upon which had been dropped many blots +of ink; and had the belated wanderer been possessed of occult +powers and wished to probe inside the envelope, the words he would +have read were these—scrawled with bold impetuosity:</p> +<div class='blkquot'> +<p><i>Mon Ami</i>,—My idea—the true idea—has come +to me. It was born in the first hour of this new day, and with it +has come the knowledge that, either you were right and some artists +need solitude, or I am one of the fools I talked of yesterday!</p> +<p>All this means that I am ill of the fever of work, and that for +many, many days—many, many weeks—I shall be in my +studio—locked away even from you.</p> +<p>Think no unkind thing of me! All my friendship is +yours—and all my thought. Be not jealous of my work! +Understand! Oh, Ned, understand! And know me, for ever and for +ever, your boy.</p> +<p>MAX.</p> +</div> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='PART_III'></a> +<h2>PART III</h2> +<br> +<br> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_XXII'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XXII</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">OF all the ills that circumstance forces upon +man, separation from a beloved object is, perhaps, the most +salutary. Separation is the crucible wherein love undergoes the +test absolute; in the fire of loss, grief softens to indifference +or hardens to enduring need.</div> +<p>The pale blue sky of May smiled upon Montmartre. The shrubs in +the plantation shimmered forth in green garments, the news-vender +by the gate, the little old Basque peasant woman telling her beads +in the shade of a holly-tree, even the children screaming at play +on the gravelled pathway, were touched with the charm of the hour. +Or so it seemed to Max—Max, <i>debonair</i> of +carriage—Max, hastening to a <i>rendezvous</i> with +fast-beating heart and nerves that throbbed alternately to a wild +joy of anticipation and a ridiculous, self-conscious dread.</p> +<p>How he had counted upon the moment! How he had loved and feared +it in ardent, varying imagination! And now, that it had at last +arrived, how hopelessly his prearranged actions eluded him, how +humanly his rehearsed sentences failed to marshal themselves for +speech! As he climbed up the plantation, dazzled by the sun, +intoxicated by the budding summer, he felt the merest +unsophisticated youth—the merest novice, dumb and impotent +under his own emotions.</p> +<p>Then, suddenly, all self-distrust—even all +self-consciousness—was reft from him and he stood quite +still, the blood burning his face, a strange sensation contracting +his throat.</p> +<p>"At last! After a hundred thousand years!"</p> +<p>The first impression that fled across his mind was the intense +familiarity of Blake's voice—the delightful familiarity of +Blake's phrasing; the second, the brimming joy of regained +companionship.</p> +<p>"<i>Mon ami! Cher ami!"</i></p> +<p>His hands went out and were caught in Blake's; and all existence +became a mirror to the blue, smiling sky.</p> +<p>No further word was said; Blake took possession of his arm in +the old, accustomed fashion, and silently—in that silence +which makes speech seem poor—they turned and began to pace up +and down the gravelled path.</p> +<p>There was nothing beautiful in the plantation of the +Sacré-Coeur; the shrubs, for all their valor of green, were +slight things if one thought of forest trees, the grass was a mere +pretence of grass. But the human mind is a great magician, weaving +glories from within, and neither Blake nor Max had will for +anything but the moment set precisely as it was.</p> +<p>For the gift of the universe, Blake could not have told why the +mere holding of the boy's arm, the mere regulating of his pace to +his, filled him with such satisfaction; nor, for the same +magnificent bribe, could Max have explained the glow—the +all-sufficing sense of fulfilment, born of the physical +contact.</p> +<p>For long they paced up and down, wrapped in their cloak of +content; then some look, some movement brought the world back, and +Blake paused.</p> +<p>"What a selfish brute I am! What about the work? Tell me, is it +done?"</p> +<p>Max looked up, the sun discovering the little flecks of gold in +his gray eyes; Max laughed from sheer happiness.</p> +<p>"<i>Mon ami!</i> But absolutely I had forgotten! Figure it to +yourself! I came out of the house, hot and cold for my poor +picture, and immediately we met—" He laughed again. "<i>Mon +ami</i>! What a compliment to you!"</p> +<p>"It is done then—the great work?"</p> +<p>"Yes; it is finished."</p> +<p>"Then I must see it this minute—this minute—this +very minute!"</p> +<p>The definiteness of the tone was like the clasp of the arm, and +Max glowed anew. By a swift, emotional effort, he conjured up the +longings that had preyed upon him in his self-imposed +solitude—conjured them for the sheer joy of feeling them +evaporate before reality.</p> +<p>"It awaits you, <i>mon ami</i>!" He made a sweeping gesture, as +though he laid the world at his friend's feet. And Blake, noting +this, noted also with an odd little sense of gratification, that +Max's English was a trifle more halting—a trifle more stilted +for the break in their companionship.</p> +<p>Still arm in arm, they passed down the sloping pathway to the +gate, where the children still played shrilly and the old Basque +peasant still drowsed over her rosary beads. As they passed her, +Blake put his hand in his pocket and slipped a silver coin into her +fingers.</p> +<p>"They're so like my own people—these Basque peasants!" he +said, by way of excuse. "They always give me a warm feeling about +the heart."</p> +<p>The old woman looked up surprised, and both were attracted by +the picture she made against the dark holly-trees—- the brown +withered face, the astonishingly bright eyes like the eyes of a +bird, the spare, bent figure with its scrupulous cleanliness of +dress.</p> +<p>"The blessing of the good God rest upon you, monsieur!" she +said, solemnly. "And may He provide you with your heart's +desire!"</p> +<p>"And for me, <i>bonne mère</i>?" Max broke in. "What for +me?"</p> +<p>The small bright eyes scanned the young face thoughtfully. "The +good God, monsieur, will take you where He means that you should +go!" Her thin lips closed, and she fell again to the telling of her +beads, her inner vision doubtless weaving the scenes of her +youth—the grave brown hills and sounding sea of her native +country.</p> +<p>"For the moment it would seem that the good God points a way to +the studio!" said Max, as they turned away. "<i>Mon ami</i>, I burn +and tremble at once! Suppose it is of no use—my picture?" He +stopped suddenly by the gate, to gaze with unpremeditated +consternation at Blake; and Blake, touched by the happy familiarity +of the action, laughed aloud.</p> +<p>"The same Max!" he cried. "The same, same Max! It's like turning +back to the first page of my little book. Come along! I have spirit +for anything to-day—even to tell you that you've made a +failure. Come along, boy! It's a great world, when all's said and +done! Come along! I'll race you up the steps!"</p> +<p>Laughing like a couple of children, they ran up the Escalier de +Sainte-Marie, smiled upon indulgently by the careless passers-by, +and entering the house, the race was continued up the polished +stairs.</p> +<p>At the door of the <i>appartement</i> Max came level with Blake, +his face glowing with excitement, his laughter broken by quick +breaths.</p> +<p>"Oh, Ned, no! No! You must not enter! I am to go first. I have +arranged it all. Ned, please!" He pulled Blake back and, opening +the door, passed into the little hall and on into the bare, bright +studio.</p> +<p>To Blake, following closely, the scene bore a striking +resemblance to another scene—to the occasion upon which Max +had blocked in, and then destroyed, his <i>cabaret</i> +picture—save that now the light was no longer the silvery +light of spring, but the pale gold radiance of a youthful +summer.</p> +<p>The impression came, but the impression was summarily erased, +for as he crossed the threshold, Max flew to him, his exuberance +suddenly dead, the trepidation of the artist enveloping him again, +chasing the blood from his cheeks.</p> +<p>"Oh, Ned! Dear Ned! If it is bad?" He caught and clung to +Blake's arm, restraining him forcibly. "Do not look! Wait one +moment! Just one little moment!"</p> +<p>Very gently Blake disengaged the clinging hands. "What a child +he is, after all! He shuts himself away and works like a +galley-slave and then, when the moment of justification +comes—! Nonsense, boy! I'm not a critic. Let me see!"</p> +<p>As in a dream, Max saw him walk round the easel and pause full +in front of it; in an agony of apprehension, a quaking eagerness, +he lived through the moment of silence; then at Blake's first words +the blood rushed singing to his ears.</p> +<p>"It's extraordinary! But who is it?"</p> +<p>"Extraordinary? Extraordinary?" In a wild onset of emotion, Max +caught but the one word. "Does that mean good—or does it mean +bad? Oh, <i>mon cher</i>, all that I have put into that picture! +Speak! Speak! Be cruel! It is all wrong? It is all bad?"</p> +<p>"Don't be a fool!" said Blake, harshly. "You know it's good. But +who is it? That's what I'm asking you. Who is it?"</p> +<p>Heedless, unstrung—half laughing, half crying—Max +ran across the room. "Oh, <i>mon ami</i>, how you terrified +me—I thought you had condemned it!"</p> +<p>But Blake's eyes were for the picture; the portrait of a woman +seated at a mirror—a portrait in which the delicate reflected +face looked out from its shadowing hair with a curious questioning +intentness, a fascinating challenge at once elusive and vital.</p> +<p>"Who is it?"</p> +<p>He spoke low and with a deliberate purpose; and at his tone +recklessness seized upon Max.</p> +<p>"A woman, <i>mon ami</i>! Just a woman!" He stiffened his +shoulders, threw up his head, like a child who would dare the +universe.</p> +<p>"Yes, but what woman?" With amazing suddenness Blake swung round +and fixed a searching glance upon him. "She's the living image of +you—but you with such a difference—"</p> +<p>He stopped as swiftly as he had begun, and in the silence Max +quailed under his glance. Out of the unknown, fear assailed him; it +seemed that under this mastering scrutiny his mask must drop from +him, his very garments be rent. In sudden panic his thought skimmed +possibilities like a circling bird and lighted upon the first-found +point of safety.</p> +<p>"She is my sister," he said, in a voice that shook a little. +"She is my sister—Maxine."</p> +<p>Blake's eyes still held his.</p> +<p>"But you never said you had a sister."</p> +<p>Max seized upon his bravado, flinging it round him as a +garment.</p> +<p>"<i>Mon ami</i>," he cried, "we are not all as confiding as you! +Besides, it is not given to us all to possess five aunts, seven +uncles, and twenty-four first cousins! If I have but one sister, +may I not guard her as a secret?"</p> +<p>He spoke fast; his eyes flashed with the old light, half +pleading, half impertinent, his chin was lifted with the old +defiant tilt. The effect was gained. Blake's severity fell from +him, and with a quick gesture of affection he caught him by the +shoulder.</p> +<p>"I'm well reproved!" he said. "Well reproved! 'Twas quite the +right way of telling me to mind my own affairs. And if she were +<i>my</i> sister—" He turned again to the picture, but as his +eyes met the mirrored eyes with their profound, inscrutable look, +his words broke off unaccountably.</p> +<p>"Yes, <i>mon ami</i>? If she were your sister—?" Max, with +eager, stealthy glance, was following his expressions.</p> +<p>But he did not answer; he stood lost in contemplation, +speculating, he knew not why, upon the question in the mirrored +face.</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_XXIII'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XXIII</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">THE studio was in darkness; the old leathern +arm-chair was drawn close to the window, and from its capacious +depths Blake looked down upon the lights of Paris, while Max, +leaning over the balcony, looked upward at the pale May stars +clustering like jewelled flowers in the garden of the sky.</div> +<p>They had finished dinner—a dinner cooked by Blake in the +little kitchen beyond the hall, and empty coffee-cups testified to +a meal enjoyed to its legitimate end. The sense of +solitude—of an intimate hour—lay upon the scene as +intangibly and as definitely as did the darkness; but Max, watching +the pageant of the stars, resting his light body against the iron +railing, was filled with a mental restlessness, the nervous +reaction of the day's triumph. More than once he glanced at Blake, +a little gleam of uncertainty flashing in his eyes, and more than +once his glance returned to the sky, as if seeking counsel of its +immensity.</p> +<p>Upon what point was Blake speculating? What were the thoughts at +work behind his silence? The questions tormented him like the +flicking of a whip, and he marked with an untoward jealousy the +profundity of Blake's calm—marked it until, goaded by a +sudden loneliness, he cried his fear aloud.</p> +<p>"Ned! You missed me in these weeks?"</p> +<p>Blake started, giving evidence of a broken dream. "Missed you, +boy?" he said, quietly. "I didn't know how much I missed you until +I saw you again to-day."</p> +<p>"And you have made no new friend?"</p> +<p>"Not a solitary one—man, woman, or child!"</p> +<p>The reply would have satisfied the most suspicious; and Max gave +a quick, deep sigh of relief.</p> +<p>"Ah! I thank God!"</p> +<p>In the darkness, Blake smiled, looking indulgently at the +youthful figure silhouetted against the sky. "Why are you so +absurd, boy?" he asked, gently. "Surely, I have proved myself!"</p> +<p>"Forgive me! I was jealous!" With one of his engaging impulses, +the boy straightened himself and came across the balcony. "I am a +strange creature, Ned! I want you altogether for myself—I +want to know you satisfied to be all mine!"</p> +<p>Blake looked up. "Do you know," he said, irrelevantly and a +little dreamily, "do you know that is just the speech I could +imagine issuing from the lips of your picture! Tell me something of +this mysterious sister of yours; I've been patient until now."</p> +<p>Max drew back into the darkness.</p> +<p>"Of my sister? There is nothing to tell!"</p> +<p>"Nonsense! There's always something to tell. It's the sense of a +story behind things that keeps half of us alive. Come! I've spun +you many a yarn." With the quiet air of the man who means to have +his way, he took out and lighted a cigar.</p> +<p>"Come, boy! I'm listening!"</p> +<p>Max had turned back to the railing, and once more he leaned out +into the night; but now his eyes were for the meshed lights of the +city and no longer for the stars, his restlessness had heightened +to excitement, his heart seemed to beat in his throat. The +temptation to make confession, to make confession here, isolated in +the midst of the world, with the friend of his soul for confessor, +caught him with the urgency of an embracing gale. To lay himself +bare, and yet retain his garments! His head swam, as he yielded to +the suggestion.</p> +<p>"There is nothing to tell!" he said again.</p> +<p>"That's admitted! All the best stories begin that way."</p> +<p>Max laughed and took a cigarette from his pocket. His nerves +were tingling, his blood racing to the thought of the precipice +upon which he stood. One false step and the fabric of his existence +was imperilled! The adventurer awoke in him alive and alert.</p> +<p>"She intrigues you, then—Maxine?"</p> +<p>"Marvellously—as the Sphinx intrigues me! To begin with, +why the name? You Max! She Maxine!"</p> +<p>For an instant Max scanned the dark plantation with knitted +brows; then he looked over his shoulder with a peculiar smile.</p> +<p>"We are twins, <i>mon cher!</i>" he said, taking secret joy in +the elaboration of his lie. "My mother was a Frenchwoman, by name +Maxine, and when she died at our birth, my father in his grief +bestowed the name upon us both—the boy and the girl—Max +and Maxine!" Very carefully he lighted his cigarette. His whole +nature was quivering to the dangers of this masked +confession—this dancing upon the edge of the precipice. "My +father was a man of ideas!" He carefully threw the match down into +the rue Müller.</p> +<p>"Your father, I take it, was a personage of importance?" Blake +was momentarily sarcastic.</p> +<p>"A personage, yes," the boy admitted, "but that is not the +point. The point is that he was a man of ideas, who understood the +body and the soul. A man who trained a child in every outdoor sport +until it was one with nature, and then taught it to entrap nature +and bend her to the uses of art. He was very great—my +father!"</p> +<p>"He is dead?"</p> +<p>"Yes; he is dead. He died the year before Maxine married."</p> +<p>"Ah, she married?" Absurd as it might seem, there was a fleeting +shadow of disappointment discernible in Blake's voice.</p> +<p>"Yes, she married. After my father's death she went to my aunt +in Petersburg, and there she forgot both nature and art—and +me."</p> +<p>"And who was the man she married?"</p> +<p>Max shrugged his shoulders to the ears. "Does it serve any +purpose to relate? He was very charming, very accomplished; how was +my sister, at eighteen, to know that he was also very callous, very +profligate, very cruel? These things happen every day in every +country!"</p> +<p>"Did she love him?" Blake was leaning forward in his chair; he +had forgotten to keep his cigar alight.</p> +<p>"Love him?" With a vehemence electric as it was unheralded, +Max's voice altered; with the passionate changefulness of the +Russian, indifference was swept aside, emotion gushed forth. "Love +him? Yes, she loved him—she, who was as proud as God! She +loved him so that all her pride left her—all the high courage +of my father left her—"</p> +<p>"And he—the man, the husband?"</p> +<p>"The man?" Max laughed a short, bitter laugh unsuggestive of +himself. "The man did what every man does, my friend, when a woman +lies down beneath his feet—he spurned her away."</p> +<p>"But, my God, a creature like that!"</p> +<p>Again Max laughed. "Yes! That is what you all say of the woman +who is not beneath your own heel! You wonder why I disapprove of +love. That is the reason of my disapproval—the story of my +sister Maxine! Maxine who was as fine and free as a young animal, +until love snared her and its instrument crushed her."</p> +<p>"But the man—the husband?" said Blake again.</p> +<p>"The man? The man followed the common way, dragging her with +him—step by step, step by step—down the sickening road +of disillusionment—down that steep, steep road that is bitter +as the Way of the Cross!"</p> +<p>"Boy!"</p> +<p>"I shock you? You have not travelled that road! You have not +seen the morass at the bottom! You have not seen the creature you +loved stripped of every garment that you wove—as has my +sister Maxine! You do well to be shocked. You have not been left +with a scar upon your heart; you have not viewed the last black +picture of all—the picture of your beloved as a dead +thing—dead over some affair of passion so sordid that even +horror turns to disgust. You do well to be shocked!"</p> +<p>"Dead?" repeated Blake, caught by the sound of the word. "He +died, then?"</p> +<p>"He killed himself." Max laughed harshly. "Killed himself when +all the wrong was done!"</p> +<p>"And your sister? Your sister? Where did she go—what did +she do?"</p> +<p>"What does a woman do when she is thrown up like wreckage after +the storm?"</p> +<p>"She does as her temperament directs. I think your sister would +go back to nature—to the great and simple things."</p> +<p>With a tense swiftness the boy turned from his fixed +contemplation of the sky, his glance flashing upon Blake.</p> +<p>"One must be naked and whole to go back to nature! One fears +nature when one is wreckage from the storm!"</p> +<p>"Then she turned to art?"</p> +<p>"No, my friend! No! Art, like nature, exacts—and she had +already given! She was too frightened—too hurt to meddle with +great things. She dried her tears before they had time to fall; she +hardened her heart, and went back to the world that gives nothing +and exacts nothing."</p> +<p>"Poor child!" said Blake. "Poor child!"</p> +<p>"She went back to the world—and the world poured oil on +her wounds, and soothed her fears and taught her its smiling, +shallow ways."</p> +<p>"Poor child!"</p> +<p>The reiterated word had a curious effect upon the boy; his +fierceness dropped from him; he turned again to the railing and, +looking upward, seemed to drench himself in the coolness of the +starlight.</p> +<p>"For years she lived her shallow life. She took lightly the +light gifts the world offered; among those gifts was +love—"</p> +<p>"Stop!" cried Blake, involuntarily. "You are tarnishing the +picture!"</p> +<p>"I am only painting in crude colors! Much love was offered +lightly to Maxine, and she took it—lightly; then one day her +friend the world brought for her consideration a suitor more +powerful, more distinguished, even less exigent than the +rest—"</p> +<p>"Stop! Stop!" cried Blake, again. "I can't see her as this hard +woman. She frightens me!"</p> +<p>"She has sometimes frightened me," said Max, enigmatically, "but +that is outside the picture. She took, as I tell you, with both +hands, smiling very wisely to herself, holding her head very high. +But when the head is held too high, the feet sometimes fall into a +trap. It came suddenly—the trapping of my sister Maxine."</p> +<p>"Yes! Yes! Tell me!"</p> +<p>"I am telling you, my friend! The date of Maxine's marriage was +fixed, and she moved through her world content. One night a great +court function was held; she was present, her <i>fiancé</i> +was present, the atmosphere was all congratulation—like honey +and wine. When it was over, the <i>fiancé</i> begged the +privilege of escorting her to her home, and they drove together +through the cold Russian night. They spoke little; Maxine's +thoughts skimmed lightly over the future, her hands lay lightly in +her <i>fiancé's</i>. All was unemotional—all was +smooth and undisturbed—until they reached the street where +her house stood; then, with the swiftness that belongs to mad +moments, the being beside her showed himself. Quick as a flash of +lightning, the dignified, distinguished, unexacting lover was +effaced, and in his place was a man—an animal—a +passionate egoist! He caught her in his arms, and his arms were +like iron bands; his lips pressed hers, and they were like a flame. +In a flash, the fabric of her illusions was scattered. She saw the +truth. The world had cheated her, this second marriage was to be as +the first. Terror seized my sister Maxine—terror of life, +terror of herself. Her false calm broke up, as the ice breaks under +the hand of spring—wells of fear gushed in her heart. She +dismissed her lover at the gateway of her house; he guessed +nothing—he knew nothing but that her hands were shaking and +that her face was white, but when he was gone she rushed to her own +room, cast off all her jewels, wrapped herself in a fur cloak and +commanded her sledge and her swiftest horses."</p> +<p>"Boy!" cried Blake. "What a situation!"</p> +<p>"She drove, drove for hours, feeling nothing of the biting cold, +seeing nothing of the imprisoning white world about her, goaded by +one idea—the terror of life—the terror of giving +herself again—"</p> +<p>"She fled," cried Blake, with sudden intuition. "She never +returned to Petersburg!" He had risen from his chair; he was +supremely, profoundly interested.</p> +<p>"She never returned to her own house. Three days after that wild +drive she left Russia—left Russia and came—"</p> +<p>"To you!" cried Blake. "What a superb situation! She came back +to you—the companion of her youth—to you, adventuring +here in your own odd way! Oh, boy, it's great!"</p> +<p>"It is strange—yes!" said Max, suddenly curbing +himself.</p> +<p>"Strange? It's stupendous!" Blake caught him by the shoulder, +wheeling him round, looking straight into his face. "Boy! You know +what I'm going to ask? You know what I'm wanting with all my heart +and soul?"</p> +<p>The pressure of his hand was hard; he was the Blake of rare +moments—the Blake roused from nonchalant good-nature into +urgency of purpose. Max felt a doubt, a thin, wavering fear flutter +across his mind.</p> +<p>"<i>Mon cher</i>," he stammered, "I do not know. How could I +know?"</p> +<p>"It's this, then! With all my heart and soul I want to know this +sister of yours."</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_XXIV'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XXIV</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">IT came sharply, as the crash of a breaking +vessel might come to the ear—this ring of reality in Blake's +voice! Abruptly, unpleasantly, Max came back to the world and the +consequences of his act.</div> +<p>Impressions and instincts spring to the artist mind; in a moment +he was armored for self-preservation—so straitly armored that +every sentiment, even the vague-stirring jealousy of himself that +had been given sudden birth, was overridden and cast into the +dark.</p> +<p>With the old hauteur, the old touch of imperiousness, he +returned Blake's glance.</p> +<p>"<i>Mon ami</i>," he said, gravely, "what you desire is +impossible."</p> +<p>Only a moment had intervened between Blake's declaration and his +reply, but it seemed to him that the universe had reeled and +steadied again in that brief interval.</p> +<p>"And why impossible?"</p> +<p>Again it was the atmosphere of their first meeting—the boy +hedged behind his pride, the man calmly breaking a way through that +hedge.</p> +<p>Max shrugged. "The word is final. It explains itself."</p> +<p>With a conciliatory, affectionate movement, Blake's hand slipped +from his shoulder to his arm. "Don't be absurd, boy," he said, +gently. "Nothing on God's earth is impossible. 'Impossibility' is a +word coined by weak people behind which to shelter. Why may I not +know your sister?"</p> +<p>Max drew away his arm, not ostentatiously, but with definite +purpose.</p> +<p>"Can you not understand without explanation—you, who +comprehend so well?"</p> +<p>"Frankly, I cannot."</p> +<p>"My sister is in Paris secretly. She would think it very ill of +me to discuss her affairs—"</p> +<p>Blake looked quickly into the cold face. "I wonder if she would, +boy?" he said. "I think I'll go and see!" With perfect seriousness +he stepped back into the studio, struck a match, lighted a candle +and walked deliberately to the easel, while Max, upon the balcony, +held his breath in astonishment.</p> +<p>For long he stood before the portrait; then at last he spoke, +and his words were as unexpected as his action had been.</p> +<p>"She loves you, boy?" he asked.</p> +<p>"Loves me? Oh, of course!" Max was startled into the reply.</p> +<p>"Then 'twill be all right!" With a touch of finality he blew out +his candle and came back to the balcony. "It will be all right, or +I'm no judge of human nature! That woman could be as proud as +Lucifer where she disliked or despised, but she'd be all +toleration, all generosity where her love was touched. Tell her I'm +your friend and, believe me, she'll ask no other passport to her +favor."</p> +<p>Max, standing in the darkness—eager of glance, quick of +thought, acutely attentive to every tone of Blake's +voice—suddenly became cognizant of his demon of jealousy, +felt its subtle stirring in his heart, its swift spring from heart +to throat. A wave of blood surged to his face and receded, leaving +him pale and trembling, but with the intense self-possession +sometimes born of such moments, he stepped into the studio and +relighted the candle Blake had blown out.</p> +<p>"Why are you so anxious to know my sister?" His voice was +measured—it gave no suggestion either of pleasure or of +pain.</p> +<p>Blake, unsuspicious, eager for his own affairs, followed him +into the room.</p> +<p>"I can't define the desire," he said; "I feel that I'd find +something wonderful behind that face; I feel that"—he paused +and laughed a little—"that somehow I should find <i>you</i> +transfigured and idealized and grown up."</p> +<p>"It is the suggestion of me that intrigues you?"</p> +<p>"I suppose it is—in a subtle way!" He glanced up, to +accentuate his words, but surprise seized him at sight of the boy's +white, passionate face. "Why, Max, boy! What's the matter?"</p> +<p>Max made a quick gesture, sweeping the words aside. "I am not +sufficient to you?"</p> +<p>Blake stared. "I don't understand."</p> +<p>"Yet I speak your own tongue! I say 'I am not sufficient to +you?' I have given you my friendship—my heart and my mind, +but I am not sufficient to you? Something more is +required—something else—something different!"</p> +<p>"Something more? Something different?"</p> +<p>"Yes! In this world it is always the outward seeming! I may have +as much personality as my sister Maxine; I may be as interesting, +but you do not inquire. Why? Why? Because I am a boy—she a +woman!"</p> +<p>Blake, uncertain how to answer this cataract of words, took +refuge in banter.</p> +<p>"Don't be fantastical!" he said. "We are not holding a debate on +sex. If we are to be normal, we must declare that man and woman +don't compare!"</p> +<p>"Now you are gambling with words! I desire facts. It is a fact +that until to-day I was enough—friend enough—companion +enough—"</p> +<p>"My child!"</p> +<p>But Max rushed on, lashing himself to rage.</p> +<p>"I was enough; but now you desire more. And why? Why? Not +because you discern more in the new personality, but because it +appeals to you as the personality of a woman. There is nothing +deeper—nothing more in the affair—no other reason, as +you yourself would say, upon God's earth!" He ended abruptly; his +arms fell to his sides; his voice held in it a sound perilously +like a sob.</p> +<p>Blake looked at him in surprise.</p> +<p>"My good boy," he said, "you're forgetting the terms of our +friendship; to my knowledge they never included hysterics."</p> +<p>The tonic effect of the words was supreme; the sob was strangled +in Max's throat; a swift, pained certainty came to him that Blake +would not have spoken these words in the plantation that morning, +would not have spoken them as they raced together up the Escalier +de Sainte-Marie.</p> +<p>"I understand, <i>mon ami</i>!" he said, tensely. "I understand +so perfectly that, were you dying, and were this request your last, +I would refuse it! I hope I have explained myself!"</p> +<p>The tone was bitter and contemptuous, it succeeded in stinging +Blake. Up to that moment he had played with the affair; now the +play became earnest, his own temper was stirred.</p> +<p>"Thanks, boy!" he said; "but when I'm dying I'll hope for an +archangel to attend to my wants—not a little cherub. +Good-night to you!" Without look or gesture of farewell, he picked +up his hat and walked out of the room.</p> +<p>Once before this thing had happened; once before Max had heard +the closing of the door, and known the blank isolation following +upon it. But then weeks of close companionship, weeks of growing +affection had preceded the moment, giving strength for its +endurance; now it came hot upon a long abstinence from friendship, +an abstinence made doubly poignant by one day's complete +reunion.</p> +<p>For a moment he stood—pride upon his right hand, love upon +his left; for a moment he stood, waging his secret war, then with +amazing suddenness, the issue was decided, he capitulated +shamelessly. Pride melted into the night and love caught him in a +quick embrace.</p> +<p>Lithe and silent as some creature of the forest, he was across +the studio and down the stairs, his mind tense, his desires fixed +upon one point.</p> +<p>Blake was crossing the dim hallway as the light feet skimmed the +last slippery steps; he paused in answer to a swift, eager +call.</p> +<p>"Ned! Ned! Wait! Ned, I want you!"</p> +<p>Blake paused; in the dim light it was not possible to read his +face, but something in the outline of his figure, in the rigidity +and definiteness of his stopping, chilled the boy with a sense of +antagonism.</p> +<p>"Ned! Ned!" He ran to him, caught and clung to his arm, put +forth all his wiles.</p> +<p>"Ned, you are angry! Why are you angry?"</p> +<p>"I am not angry; I am disappointed." Some strange wall of +coldness, at once intangible and impenetrable, had risen about +Blake. In fear the boy beat vain hands against it.</p> +<p>"You are disappointed, Ned—in me?"</p> +<p>"I am."</p> +<p>"And why? Why?"</p> +<p>"Because you have behaved like a little fool."</p> +<p>In themselves, the words were nothing, but Blake's tone was +serious.</p> +<p>"And—because of that—you are disappointed?"</p> +<p>Max's voice undeniably shook; and the fates, peering into the +dark hallway, smiled as they pushed the little human comedy nearer +the tragic verge.</p> +<p>"I am," answered Blake, with cruel deliberateness. "I thought +until to-night that you were a reasonable being—a bit +elusive, perhaps—a bit wayward and tantalizing—but +still a reasonable being. Now—"</p> +<p>"Now?" Suddenly Max had a sensation of being very small, very +insignificant; suddenly he had an impression of Blake as a denizen +of a wider world, where other emotions than laughter and +comradeship held place—and his heart trembled +unreasonably.</p> +<p>"Oh, <i>mon cher</i>!" he cried. "Forgive me! Forgive me! Say I +am still your boy! Say it! Say it!"</p> +<p>Truth lent passion to his voice—false passion Blake +esteemed it, and the cold, imaginary wall became more +impregnable.</p> +<p>"That'll do, Max! Heroics are no more attractive to me than +hysterics. Good-night to you!" He freed his arm and turned to the +door.</p> +<p>In the darkness, Max threw out both hands in despairing +appeal.</p> +<p>"Ned! Oh, Ned!" he called. But only the sound of Blake's +retreating steps responded. And here was no merciful intervention +of gods and mortals, to make good the evil hour; no pretty, tactful +Jacqueline, no M. Cartel with his magic fiddle. Only the dim hall, +the lonely stairway, the open door with its vision of cold, pale +stars and whispering trees.</p> +<p>His misery was a tangible thing. Like a lost child, obsessed by +its own fears, he bent under the weight of his sorrow; he sank down +upon the lowest step of the stairs and, resting his head against +the banister, broke into pitiful, silent tears.</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_XXV'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XXV</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">IT was the morning after the reunion—the +morning after the catastrophe, and Blake was breakfasting alone in +his rooms.</div> +<p>Typically Parisian rooms they were, rooms that stood closed and +silent for more than half the year and woke to offer him a welcome +when his wandering footsteps turned periodically toward Paris; +typically Parisian, with their long windows and stiffly draped +curtains, their marble mantelpieces and gilt-framed mirrors, their +furniture arranged with a suggestion of ancient formality that by +its very rigidity soothed the eye.</p> +<p>At the moment, evidences of Blake's unusually long occupancy +broke this stiffness in many directions; intimate trifles that +speak a man's presence were strewn here and there—objects of +utility, objects of value and interest gathered upon his last long +journey. Eminently pleasant the <i>salon</i> appeared in the +sunshine of the May morning—full of air and light, its gray +carpet and gray-panelled walls making an agreeably neutral setting +to the household gods of a gentleman of leisure. But the gentleman +in question, so agreeably situated, seemed to find his state less +gratifying than it might appear; a sense of dissatisfaction +possessed him, as he sat at his solitary meal, a sense of dulness +and loss most tenacious of hold.</p> +<p>More than once he roundly called himself a fool; more than once +he shook out the thin sheets of his morning paper and buried +himself in their contents, but unavailingly. The feeling of +flatness, the sense of dissatisfaction with the world as it stood, +grew instead of diminishing. At last, throwing down the paper, he +gave up the unequal struggle and yielded to the pessimistic +pleasure of self-analysis. He recalled last night and its vexatious +trend of events, and with something akin to shame, he remembered +his anger against Max; but although he admitted its possible +exaggeration, the admission brought no palliation of Max's offence. +He, possibly, had behaved like a brute; but Max had behaved like an +imbecile!</p> +<p>At this point, he fell to staring fixedly in front of him, and +through the meshes of his day-dream floated a face—not the +face of the boy he was condemning, but that of the mysterious cause +of last night's calamity.</p> +<p>He conjured it with quite astonishing vividness—the face +of the portrait—the face so like, so unlike, the boy's. Every +detail of the picture assailed him; the subtle illusion of the +mirror—the strange, reflected eyes propounding their +riddle.</p> +<p>Looking in imagination into those eyes, he lost himself +delightfully. Sensations, periods of time passed and repassed in +his brain—speculation, desire, and memory danced an +enchanting, tangled measure.</p> +<p>He recalled the hundred fancies that had held, or failed to hold +him in his thirty-eight years; he recalled the women who had loved +too little, the women who had loved too much; and, quick upon the +recollection, came the consciousness of the disillusion that had +inevitably followed upon adventure.</p> +<p>He did not ask himself why these dreams should stir, why these +ghosts should materialize and kiss light hands to him in the blue +brilliance of this May morning; he realized nothing but that behind +them all—a reality in a world of shadows—he saw the +eyes of the picture insistently propounding their riddle—the +riddle, the question that from youth upward had rankled, +inarticulate, in his own soul.</p> +<p>It arose now, renewed, with his acknowledgment of it—the +troubling, insistent question that cries in every human brain, +sometimes softly, like a child sobbing outside a closed door, +sometimes loudly and terribly, like a man in agony. The eternal +question ringing through the ages.</p> +<p>He recognized it, clear as the spoken word, in this unknown +woman's gaze; and for the first time in all his life the desire to +make answer quickened within him. He, who had invariably sought, +invariably questioned, suddenly craved to make reply!</p> +<p>An incurable dreamer, the fancy took him and he yielded to its +glamour. How delightful to know and study that exquisite face! How +fascinating beyond all words to catch the fleeting semblance of his +charming Max—to lose it in the woman's seriousness—to +touch it again in some gleam of boyish humor! It was a quaint +conceit, apart from, untouched by any previous experience. Its +subtlety possessed him; existence suddenly took on form and +purpose; the depression, the sense of loss dispersed as morning +clouds before the sun.</p> +<p>He rose, forgetful of his unfinished meal, his vitality +stirring, his curiosity kindling as it had not kindled for +years.</p> +<p>What, all things reckoned, stood between him and this alluring +study? A boy! A mere boy!</p> +<p>No thought came to him of the boy himself—the instrument +of the desire. No thought came; for every human creature is a pure +egoist in the first stirring of a passion, and stalks his quarry +with blind haste, fearful that at any turn he may be balked by time +or circumstance. Later, when grief has chastened, or joy cleansed +him, the altruist may peep forth, but never in the primary +moment.</p> +<p>With no thought of the clinging hands and beseeching voice of +last night—with no knowledge of a mournful figure that had +dragged itself up the stairway of the house in the rue Müller +and sobbed itself to sleep in a lonely bed, he walked across the +room to his writing-table and calmly picked up a pen.</p> +<p>He dipped the pen into the ink and selected a sheet of +note-paper; then, as he bent to write, impatience seized him, he +tore the paper across and took up a telegraph form.</p> +<p>On this he wrote the simple message:</p> +<div class='blkquot'> +<p>Will you allow me to meet your sister?—NED.</p> +</div> +<p>It was brief, it was informal, it was entirely unjustifiable. +But what circumstance in his relation to the boy had lent itself +either to formality or justification?</p> +<p>He rang the bell, dispatched his message, and then sat down to +wait.</p> +<p>His attitude in that matter of waiting was entirely +characteristic. He did not arrange his action in the event of +defeat; he did not speculate upon probable triumph. The affair had +passed out of his hands; the future was upon the knees of the +gods!</p> +<p>He did not finish his breakfast in that time of probation; he +did not again take up the paper he had thrown aside. He made no +effort to occupy or to amuse himself; he merely waited, and in due +time the gods gave him a sign—a telegraphic message, brief +and concise as his own:</p> +<div class='blkquot'> +<p>Come to-night at ten. She will be here.—MAX.</p> +</div> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_XXVI'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XXVI</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">AT ten o'clock, punctual to the moment, Blake +walked up the Escalier de Sainte-Marie. All day a curious agitation +compounded of elation and impatience had lifted him as upon wings, +but now that the hour had arrived, doubt amounting almost to +reluctance assailed his spirit. He walked slowly, looking about him +as though the way were strange; outside the house in the rue +Müller he paused and glanced up at the fifth floor, suddenly +daunted, suddenly thrilled by the faint light coming mistily +through the open windows of the <i>salon</i> and the studio.</div> +<p>What would she be like—this sister of Max? He strove +ineffectually to materialize the portrait, but it eluded him. Only +the soul of the woman seemed to have place in his +imagination—the soul, seen through the questioning eyes.</p> +<p>Still a victim to the strange, new reticence, he entered the +open doorway and began the familiar ascent. Here again the thought +of the woman obsessed him. How must this place appear to her? His +thoughts touched the varying scenes of Max's story—scenes of +the girl's free youth and sumptuous, exotic after-life. None fitted +accurately with a rue Müller. Of a certainty she, as well as +the boy, must have the adventuring spirit!</p> +<p>His senses stirred, routing his diffidence, and under their spur +he ran up the remaining steps, only pausing at the fifth floor as a +light voice hailed him out of the dusk, a little flitting figure +darted from the shadows, and Jacqueline, brimming with suppressed +excitement, caught him by the arm.</p> +<p>"Monsieur Édouard!"</p> +<p>He laughed in recognition and greeting. "Well, Jacqueline! +Always the air of the grand secret! Always the air of the little +bird that has discovered the topmost bough of the tree! What is it +to-night?"</p> +<p>His feelings were running riot; it was agreeable to spend them +in badinage. But Jacqueline slapped his hand in reproof.</p> +<p>"No pleasantries, monsieur! The affair is serious."</p> +<p>He smiled; he lowered his voice to the tone of hers. "You have a +visitor, then, Jacqueline, to this fifth floor of yours?"</p> +<p>Jacqueline nodded her blonde head, and again her excitement +brimmed full measure.</p> +<p>"Monsieur, she is here—the sister of M. Max! The +princess!" She whispered the last word—a whisper delicious, +tremulous with the weight of actual romance.</p> +<p>Blake heard it, and his own heart stirred to a joyous youthful +sensation. It was so naïve, so charming, so absolutely +French.</p> +<p>"The princess!" he whispered back in just the expected tone. +"Jacqueline, is she beautiful?"</p> +<p>Jacqueline threw up her hands, invoked heaven with her eyes, +earth with her shrugging shoulders.</p> +<p>"Monsieur, she is ravishing!"</p> +<p>Blake's expressive answer was to put her gently aside and step +toward Max's door.</p> +<p>But she was after him with a little cry. "Monsieur, not yet! I +must deliver my message! The message of M. Max!"</p> +<p>"Of M. Max?"</p> +<p>"But yes, monsieur!" Her hands, her whole body expressed apology +and eager explanation. "M. Max has been called away—upon a +business of much importance. M. Max desires his profoundest, his +most affectionate excuses—and will monsieur place him under a +debt never possible of repayment by entering the +<i>appartement</i>—by entertaining the princess during his +absence?"</p> +<p>Blake stared "In the name of Heaven—"</p> +<p>But Jacqueline's white hands again made free with his arm.</p> +<p>"Monsieur, Heaven will arrange! Heaven is bountiful in these +affairs!"</p> +<p>"But I don't understand. He has gone upon business, you say? He +never had any business."</p> +<p>Jacqueline laughed and clapped her hands. "Do not be too sure, +monsieur! He is growing up, is M. Max!" She gave another little +twittering laugh of sheer delight.</p> +<p>"Come, monsieur! The princess is alone. It is not gallant to +keep a lady waiting!"</p> +<p>"But you don't understand, Jacqueline. It is +impossible—impossible that I should intrude—"</p> +<p>"It is no intrusion, monsieur! I have explained everything to +madame—and she expects you!" She flitted past him to the +door, threw it open and dropped him a pretty, impertinent +curtsy.</p> +<p>"Now, monsieur!" she commanded; and Blake, half amused, half +resentful, saw nothing for it but to obey.</p> +<p>He stepped across the threshold; he heard Jacqueline laugh again +softly and close the door; then he stood, a prey to profound +trepidation.</p> +<p>He stood for a moment, hesitating between flight and advance, +then shame at his weakness forced him to go forward and open the +<i>salon</i> door.</p> +<p>As he opened it, another change took place within him; his +diffidence forsook him, his excitement was allayed as, by a +restraining hand, he was dominated by a peculiar clarity of +vision.</p> +<p>This accentuated keenness of observation came into action even +in a material sense; as he passed into the familiar room, each +object appealed to him in its appointed place—in its just and +proper value. The quaint odd articles of furniture that he and Max +had chosen in company! The pictures that he had hung upon the white +walls at Max's bidding! The Russian <i>samovar</i>, the books, the +open cigarette-box, each of which spoke and breathed of Max!</p> +<p>Every object came to him clearly in the quiet light of the lamp +upon the bureau; it seemed like the setting of a play, where the +atmosphere had been carefully created, the details definitely woven +into a perfect chain.</p> +<p>He stood, looking upon the silent room, wondering what would +happen—convinced that something must happen; and at last, +with the same quietness—the same intense naturalness, perfect +as extreme art—a slight sound came from the balcony and a +woman stepped into the subdued light.</p> +<p>She stepped into the quiet lamplight and paused; and Blake's +first subconscious feeling was that, miraculously, the empty room +had taken on life and meaning—that this sudden, gracious +presence filled and possessed it absolutely and by right +divine.</p> +<p>She seemed very tall as she stood looking down into the room, +her rich hair crowning her head, her young figure clothed in white +and wrapped in a cloak of soft mysterious gray that fell from her +shoulders simply, yet with the dignity of a royal mantle.</p> +<p>She stood for a full minute, looking at him, almost it seemed +sharing his own uncertainty; then, with a little gesture that +irresistibly conjured Max, she stepped into the room—and into +his life.</p> +<p>"Monsieur," she said, very softly, "I am the sister of Max; you +are his friend. It is surely meant that we know each other!"</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_XXVII'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XXVII</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">IT was a perfect moment; one of those rare and +delicate spaces of time in which Fate's fingers seem to strike a +chord at once poignant and satisfying, faint and far-reaching. The +lamp-lit room, the open window and, beyond, the balcony veiled in +the obscurity of the night! It was a fair setting for romance; and +romance, young, beautiful, gracious as in the fairy-tale, had +emerged from it into Blake's life. A smile, a word—and an +atmosphere had been created! The things of the past were obscured, +and the things of the present made omnipotent.</div> +<p>"What a brother this is of mine!" Maxine smiled again with a +little quiver of humor that set her eyes alight. "Is it not like +him to invite me to criticise my portrait, and leave me to receive +his friend?"</p> +<p>She spoke, not in the English which Max invariably used, but in +French; and the sound of her voice entangled Blake's senses. It +seemed the boy's voice at its lowest and tenderest, but touched +with new inflections tantalizing as they were delightful. +Self-consciousness fled before it; he was at one with the sister as +he had been at one with the brother on the crisp white morning when +comradeship had been sealed to the marching of soldiers' feet and +the rattle of fife and drum.</p> +<p>"Princess," he said, "I shall be as frank as Max himself would +be! The situation is overwhelming; do with me what you will! If I +intrude, dismiss me! I know how fascinating solitude on this +balcony can be."</p> +<p>She smiled again, but gravely with a hint of the portrait's +mystery.</p> +<p>"Solitude is an excellent thing, monsieur, but to-night I think +I need the solace of a fellow-being. Will you not stay and keep me +company?"</p> +<p>He looked at the smiling lips, the serious, searching eyes, and +he spoke his thoughts impulsively.</p> +<p>"I shall be the most honored man in Paris!"</p> +<p>"That is well! Then we will talk, and watch the stars."</p> +<p>Here the naïve imperiousness of the boy gleamed out, +familiar and reassuring, and Maxine walked across the room, turning +at the window to look back for Blake.</p> +<p>"He is not without appreciation—this little brother of +mine?" She put the question softly, tentatively, as she and Blake +leaned over the balcony railing.</p> +<p>"He is an artist, princess."</p> +<p>"You think so?" Her voice warmed and vibrated; through the vague +darkness he felt her eyes search his face.</p> +<p>"Undoubtedly."</p> +<p>"Ah, you love him?" The voice dropped to a great +gentleness—a gentleness that touched him in a strange +degree.</p> +<p>"It would be difficult to tell you what he has been to me," he +said. "Our friendship has been a thing of great value. Has he ever +told you how we met?"</p> +<p>"He has told me!" Her tone was still low—still curiously +attractive. "And he appreciates very highly, monsieur, the +affection you have given him."</p> +<p>She paused; and Blake, looking down upon Paris, was conscious of +that pause as of something pregnant and miraculous. It filled the +moment, combining, with the soft texture of her garments and the +faint scent from her hair, to weave a spell subtle as it was +intangible.</p> +<p>"There is nothing to appreciate," he made answer. "I am merely a +commonplace mortal who found in him something uncommon. The +appreciation is mine entirely—the appreciation of the youth, +the vitality he expresses."</p> +<p>"Ah, but you do yourself an injustice!" She spoke impulsively +and, as if alarmed at her own eagerness, broke off and began anew +in a soberer voice. "I mean, monsieur, that friendship is not a +solitary affair. Whatever you discerned in Max, Max must equally +have discerned in you."</p> +<p>"I wonder!" He turned his gaze from the lights of the city to +the rustling trees of the plantation. The hour was magical, the +situation beyond belief. Standing there upon the balcony, suspended +as it were between heaven and earth, companioned by this wonderful, +familiar, unfamiliar being, he seemed to see his own soul—to +see it from afar off and with a great lucidity. "I wonder!" he said +again; and the sadness, the discontent that stalked him in lonely +moments touched him briefly, like the shadow of a travelling +cloud.</p> +<p>"What do you wonder, monsieur?"</p> +<p>"The meaning of it all, princess! Existence is such a chase. I, +perhaps, hunt friendship—and find Max; I, perhaps, dream that +I have found my goal, while to him I may be but a wayside +inn—a place to linger in and leave! We both follow the chase, +but who can say if we mark the same quarry? It's a puzzling +world!"</p> +<p>"Monsieur, it is sometimes a glorious world!" So swift was her +change of voice, so impulsive the gesture with which she turned to +him, that the vividness of a suggested Max startled him. She was +infinitely like to Max—Max when life intoxicated him, when he +threw out both arms to embrace it.</p> +<p>"When you look like that, princess," he cried, "I could forget +everything—I could take your hand, and show you all my heart, +for you literally <i>are</i> the boy!"</p> +<p>There was another pause—a pause fraught with poignant +things. Standing there, between heaven and earth, they were no +longer creatures of conventionality, fettered by individual worlds. +They were two souls conscious of an affinity.</p> +<p>Briefly, sweetly, Maxine's fingers touched his hand and then +withdrew. "Monsieur, in moments I <i>am</i> Max!"</p> +<p>Nothing of surprise, nothing of question came to him. He only +knew that a touch, infinitely desired, had lighted upon +him—that a comprehension born of immaterial things was luring +him whither he knew not.</p> +<p>"You are Max, princess," he said, swiftly, "but Max suddenly +made possessor of a soul! I've always fancied Max a mythical +being—a creature of eternal youth, fascinating as he is +elusive—a faun-like creature, peeping into the world from +some secret grove, ready to dart back at any human touch. Max's +lips were made for laughter; his eyes are too bright for +tears."</p> +<p>"And I, monsieur? What am I?"</p> +<p>"You are the miracle! You are the elusive creature deserting the +green groves—stepping voluntarily into the mortal world."</p> +<p>"Yet if you know of me at all, you must know that I have left +the mortal world and am seeking the secret groves."</p> +<p>"I have been told that."</p> +<p>"And you disbelieve?"</p> +<p>"I am afraid, princess, I do." He turned and looked at +her—at the slim body wrapped in its long, smooth cloak of +velvet—at the shadowed, questioning eyes. "I know I am +greatly daring, but there are moments when we are outside +ourselves—when we know and speak things of which we can give +no logical account. You have put life behind you; yet what is life +but a will-o'-the-wisp? Who can say where the light may not break +forth again?"</p> +<p>"But have we not power over our senses, monsieur? Can we not +shut our eyes, even if the light does break forth?"</p> +<p>"No, princess, we cannot! Because nature will inevitably say, 'I +have given you eyes with which to see. Open those eyes'!"</p> +<p>"Ah, there we differ, monsieur!"</p> +<p>Blake laughed. "There, princess, you are the boy! He, too, +thinks he can cheat nature; but I preach my gospel to him, I tell +him Nature will have her own. If we will not bend to her, she will +take and break us. Ah, but listen to that!"</p> +<p>His discourse broke off; they both involuntarily raised their +heads and looked toward the windows of the neighboring +<i>appartement</i>.</p> +<p>"Princess!" he said, delightedly. "I wouldn't have had you miss +this for ten thousand pounds! Has Max described his neighbor, M. +Cartel? I tell you you will have a little of heaven when M. Cartel +plays <i>Louise</i>!"</p> +<p>Very delicately, with a curious human clarity of sound, the +violin of M. Cartel executed the first notes of Louise's +declaration in the duet with Julian—'<i>Depuis le jour +où je me suis donnée!'</i> One caught the whole +intention of the composer in the few crystal notes—one +figured the whole scene—the little house of love, the lovers +in their Garden of Eden, and below Paris—symbolic Paris!</p> +<p>"You know <i>Louise</i>, princess?"</p> +<p>"Yes, monsieur, I know <i>Louise</i>."</p> +<p>All was clear, all was understood in that brief reply. A wide +contentment, vitalized by excitement, lifted the soul of Blake. +Leaning over the balcony railing, drinking in the music of M. +Cartel, more than a little of heaven opened to him; a unique +emotion thrilled him—a consciousness of sublimity, a sense of +being part of some unfathomable yet perfect scheme. The music wove +its story; the lovers became one with his own existence, as he +himself was one with the stars above him and the lights below. He +followed every note, and in his own brain was spun the subtle +thread that bound Julian and Louise; his own fancy ran the gamut of +their emotions from mere human reminiscence to overwhelming +passion.</p> +<p>As he listened, his first hearing of M. Cartel's fiddle crept +back upon the feet of memory, and with it the recollection of the +boy's rapture, the boy's wayward breaking of the spell and denial +of the truth of love. Cautiously he moved his head and stole a +glance at his companion, summing up the contrast between the +present and the past.</p> +<p>Maxine was leaning forward, in thrall to the music: her gray +cloak had fallen slightly back, displaying her white +dress—her white neck; her hands were clasped, her +eyes—the woman's eyes, the eyes of mystery—gazed into +profound space.</p> +<p>He held himself rigid; he dared not stir, lest he should brush +her cloak; he scarce dared breathe, lest he should break her dream. +A feeling akin to adoration awakened in him, and as if in +expression of the emotion, the violin of M. Cartel cried out the +supreme confession of the lovers, Louise's enraptured '<i>C'est le +Paradis! C'est une féerie</i>!', and Julian's answer, +intoxicating as wine, '<i>Non! C'est la vie! l'Eternelle, la +toute-puissante vie</i>!'</p> +<p>And there, with the whimsicality of the artist, the bow of M. +Cartel was lifted, and sharp, pregnant silence fell upon the +night.</p> +<p>Blake turned to Maxine; and Maxine, with lips parted, eyes dark +with thought, met his regard.</p> +<p>For one second her impulse seemed to sway to words, her body to +yield to some gracious, drooping enchantment; then, swiftly as M. +Cartel had called up silence, she recalled +herself—straightened her body and lifted her head.</p> +<p>"Monsieur," she said, with dignity, "I thank you for your +kindness and for your companionship—and I bid you +good-night!"</p> +<p>The swiftness of his dismissal scarcely touched Blake. Already +she was his sovereign lady—her look a command, her word +paramount.</p> +<p>"As you will, princess!"</p> +<p>She held out her hand; and taking, he bowed over, but did not +kiss it.</p> +<p>She smiled, conceiving his desire and his restraint.</p> +<p>"I shall convey to Max how charmingly you have entertained me, +monsieur and, perhaps—" Her voice dropped to its softest +note.</p> +<p>Blake looked up.</p> +<p>"Perhaps, princess—?"</p> +<p>She smiled again, half diffidently. "Nothing, monsieur! +Good-night!"</p> +<p>"Good-night!"</p> +<p>He left her to the gray mystery of the stars, and passed back +through the quiet, lamp-lit room and down the slippery stairs that +led to the mundane world; and with each step he took, each breath +he drew, the words from <i>Louise</i> repeated themselves, +justifying all things, glorifying all things: '<i>C'est la vie! +l'Eternelle, la toute-puissante vie</i>!'</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_XXVIII'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XXVIII</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">BLAKE must have reached the last step of the +Escalier de Sainte-Marie, must indeed have turned the corner of the +rue André de Sarte before the creaking of a footstep or the +opening of a door disturbed the silence of the fifth floor; but, +due time having expired—due deference having been paid to +taste and the proprieties—the handle of M. Cartel's door was +very softly turned, and Jacqueline slipped forth into the shadowed +landing.</div> +<p>Never were human curiosity and feminine craft more signally +displayed than in the slim little form creeping on tiptoe, the +astute, <i>piquante</i> little face thrust forth into the dark. +Across the landing she stole, and with deft fingers opened Max's +door without a sound.</p> +<p>Here, in the narrow hallway, she paused and called gently, +"Monsieur Max!" But as no voice answered, she crept to the +<i>salon</i> door and, with a little comedy of smiles all for her +own diversion, called again with pursed lips and in a stage +whisper: "Madame! Madame!"</p> +<p>It carried—this portentous word—across the quiet +room to the balcony where Maxine was lingering; it drew from her a +little 'oh,' of consternation; finally, it brought her running +across the room to her visitor.</p> +<p>Jacqueline, lynx-eyed, stood and looked at her—noting how +flushed she was, how youthful-looking, how unguarded and brimming +with emotion.</p> +<p>"Madame!" she cried. "I know without a word! It has been a grand +success."</p> +<a name="eternal"></a> +<center><img src="images/ill226.jpg" width="400" height="614" alt= +""<i>C'EST LA VIE! L'ETERNELLE, LA TOUTE-PUISSANTE VIE!</i>""> +</center> +<h5>"C'EST LA VIE! L'ETERNELLE, LA TOUTE-PUISSANTE VIE!"</h5> +<p>Maxine laughed, a girlish laugh of self-betrayal. "A grand +success! Absolutely a grand success! And, Jacqueline"—she +hesitated, laughed again with charming self-consciousness, rushed +afresh into speech—"Jacqueline, he thought me beautiful! Not +a word was said, but I know he thought me beautiful. Tell me! Am I +beautiful?" Swiftly, as might the boy, she threw off her velvet +cloak, letting it fall to the ground, and showed herself tall and +supple and straight in her white dress.</p> +<p>Jacqueline rushed forward warmly, caught and kissed her +hand.</p> +<p>"Madame, you are ravishing!" And, with her pretty native +practicality, she picked up the cloak, carefully folded and +carefully laid it aside.</p> +<p>"Ravishing!" Maxine laughed once more. "Jacqueline, I am +something more than that! I am happy!" She threw out her arms, as +if to embrace the universe. "I am happier than the saints in +heaven! I am living in the moment, and the moment is perfection! I +care nothing that yesterday I wept, that to-morrow I may weep +again. I am alive and I am happy. I feel as I used to feel at +fifteen years old, galloping a spirited horse. The whole world is +sublime—from the dust in the streets to the stars in the +sky!" She forgot her companion, her speech broke off, she turned +and began to pace the room with head thrown back, hands clasped +behind her with careless, boyish ease.</p> +<p>For a while Jacqueline watched her, diligently sifting out every +emotional sign; then, deeming that some moment of her own choosing +had arrived, she slipped unobserved from the room, to return a +minute later bearing a kettle full of boiling water.</p> +<p>Maxine looked round as she made her entry.</p> +<p>"A kettle, Jacqueline?"</p> +<p>"For madame's tea. And, my God, but it is hot!" She set it down +hastily in the fireplace, and sucked her finger with a pouting +smile.</p> +<p>Maxine smiled, too, coming back from her dream with vague +graciousness. "But I do not need tea."</p> +<p>Jacqueline did not refute the statement, but merely began to +manipulate the <i>samovar</i> in the manner learned of Max, while +Maxine, yielding to her own delicious exaltation, fell again to her +long, slow pacing of the floor.</p> +<p>Presently the inviting smell of tea began to pervade the room, +and Jacqueline set out a cup and saucer—Max's first purchase +from old Bluebeard of the curios.</p> +<p>"Madame is served!" She stood behind the chair ordained for +Maxine, very sedate, very assured of her own arrangements.</p> +<p>Maxine paused, as though the suggestion of tea was brought to +her for the first time.</p> +<p>"How delightful!" she said, with swift, serene pleasure. "How +kind! How thoughtful!"</p> +<p>"Seat yourself, madame!"</p> +<p>The chair was drawn forward; the just and proper thrill of +preparation was conveyed by Jacqueline; and Maxine seated herself, +still in her smiling dream.</p> +<p>Half the cup of tea was consumed under Jacqueline's watchful +eye, then she stole round the chair.</p> +<p>"Madame, a cigarette?" Her fingers crept to the cigarette-box, +then found and struck a match, all with a deft, unobtrusive quiet +that won its way undenied.</p> +<p>The cigarette was lighted, Maxine leaned back in her chair, +Jacqueline's confidential moment was secured.</p> +<p>"And so, madame, it was a grand success?"</p> +<p>Maxine looked up. The first fine ecstasy was past; the +after-glow of deep contentment curled round her with the cigarette +smoke; she was the pliant reed to the soft wind of Jacqueline's +whispering.</p> +<p>"It was past belief," she answered, "past all belief. We stood +together in the light of the lamp and looked each other in the +eyes, and he never guessed. He never guessed—he, who +has—Oh, it was past belief!"</p> +<p>"Ah!" murmured Jacqueline, complacently. "I told madame I had a +quite extraordinary talent in the dressing of hair—though +madame was sceptical! And as for the purchase of clothes. Did he +admire madame's velvet cloak?"</p> +<p>Maxine smiled tolerantly. "Of course he did not!"</p> +<p>Jacqueline cast up her eyes to heaven. "These English—they +are extraordinary! But I tell you this, madame, he knew +here"—she touched her heart—"he knew here, that madame +looked what she is—a queen!"</p> +<p>"Absurd child!"</p> +<p>The reproof was gentle; Jacqueline's nimble tongue took +advantage of the chance given it.</p> +<p>"And tell me, madame? He play his part gallantly—Monsieur +Édouard?" Never before had she dared so much; but never +before had Maxine's eyes looked as they looked to-night.</p> +<p>Before replying, Maxine leaned her elbows on the table and took +her face between her hands.</p> +<p>"It was past belief—that also!" she said at last. "He +seemed a different being. I cannot understand it."</p> +<p>"He seemed of a greater interest, madame?"</p> +<p>"Of a strangely greater interest."</p> +<p>"In what manner, madame? Looks? Words?" Cunning as a monkey, +little Jacqueline was all soft innocence in the method of her +questioning.</p> +<p>"In every way—manner—speech—expression of +thought. And, Jacqueline"—she turned her face, all radiant +and unsuspicious, to her interlocutor—"I made a discovery! He +loves Max!"</p> +<p>Jacqueline, with downcast eyes and discreet bearing, carefully +removed the empty tea-cup.</p> +<p>"Yes, he loves me as Max! He told me so. It has made me +marvellously happy—marvellously happy and, also"—she +sighed—"also, Jacqueline, just a little sad!"</p> +<p>"Sad, madame?"</p> +<p>"Yes, sad because he loves Max as one loves a child, expecting +no return; and—I would be loved as an equal."</p> +<p>"Assuredly, madame."</p> +<p>"I <i>must</i> be loved as an equal!" Fire suddenly kindled her +dreaming voice; a look, clear and alert, suddenly crossed her eyes. +"Jacqueline," she cried, "I have set myself a new task. I shall +make him respect Max as well as love him; Max shall become his +equal. Now, suppose you set yourself a task like that, how would +you begin?"</p> +<p>"Oh, madame!" Jacqueline was all deprecation.</p> +<p>"Do not fear. Tell me!"</p> +<p>"Madame, it is not for me—" Jacqueline's triumph in the +moment, and her concealing of the triumph, were things exquisitely +feminine.</p> +<p>"Tell me!"</p> +<p>"I may speak from the heart, madame?"</p> +<p>Maxine bent her head in gracious condescension.</p> +<p>"Then, madame, I would make of Monsieur Édouard a book of +figures. The princess would learn the rules; Monsieur Max would +shut the book, and make up the sum. It would be quite simple."</p> +<p>The hot color scorched Maxine's face; she rose quickly. +"Jacqueline! I had not expected this!"</p> +<p>"Madame desired me to speak from the heart. The heart, at times, +is unruly!"</p> +<p>"True! Forgive me. But you should not suggest a thing that you +know to be impossible."</p> +<p>"Pardon, madame! I was thinking of the many impossibilities +performed in a good cause!"</p> +<p>"Say no more, Jacqueline! To-night was to-night! To-night is +over!" She walked across the room and passed out upon the balcony, +leaning over the railing at the spot where Blake had stood.</p> +<p>Jacqueline, swift and guileful, was instantly beside her.</p> +<p>"Madame, at its most serious, to-night was a little comedy. Is +it so criminal to repeat a little comedy—once, or even +twice—in a good cause? It is not as if madame were not sure +of herself! Besides, the comedy was charming!"</p> +<p>"Yes; the comedy was charming!" Maxine echoed the sentiment, and +in her heart called 'charming' a poor word. "But even if I were +weak, Jacqueline," she added, "how could I banish Max? Max could +scarcely continue to have important business."</p> +<p>"Perhaps not, madame; but Monsieur Max might continue to display +temper! Do not forget that he and Monsieur Édouard did not +part upon the friendliest terms."</p> +<p>Maxine smiled.</p> +<p>"But even granted that, I could not be here +again—alone."</p> +<p>Jacqueline, with airiest scorn, tossed the words aside.</p> +<p>"That, madame? Why, that arranges itself! The princess loves her +brother! His quarrel is her grief. Is not woman always +compassionate?"</p> +<p>The tone was irresistible. Maxine laughed. "Jacqueline, you were +the Serpent in Adam's Garden! There is not a doubt of it! No wonder +poor M. Cartel has taken so big a bite of the Apple."</p> +<p>She laughed again, and Jacqueline laughed too, in mischievous +delight.</p> +<p>"Madame!" she coaxed. "Madame!"</p> +<p>"No!" said Maxine, with eyes fixed determinately upon the lights +of the city; while somewhere above her in the cool, clear +starlight, a hidden voice—her own, and not her +own—whispered a subtle 'Yes!'</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_XXIX'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XXIX</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">THE universe is compounded of the miraculous; +but love is the miracle of miracles. Again the impossible had been +contrived; again Maxine and Blake were standing together on the +balcony. The Parisian night seemed as still as a held breath, and +as palpitating with human possibilities; the domes of the +Sacré-Coeur loomed white against the sky, dumb witnesses to +the existence of the spirit. The scene was undoubtedly poetic; yet, +placed in the noisiest highway of London or the most desolate +bog-land of Blake's native country, these two would have been as +truly and amply cognizant of the real and the ideal; for the cloak +of love was about them, the vapor of love was before their eyes, +and for the hour, although they knew it not, they were capable of +reconstructing a whole world from the material in their own +hearts.</div> +<p>But they were divinely ignorant; they each tricked themselves +with the age-old fallacy of a unique position, each wandered onward +in the dream-like fields of romance, content to believe that the +other knew the hidden way.</p> +<p>The scene bore a perfect similarity to the scene of the first +meeting—about them, the darkness and the quiet—behind +them, the little <i>salon</i> lit by the familiar lamp, showing all +the reassuring evidences of the boy's occupation. For close upon an +hour they had enjoyed this intimacy of the balcony, at first +talking much and rapidly upon the ostensible object of their +meeting—Max's quarrel with Blake, later falling to a happy +silence, as though they deliberately closed their lips, the more +fully to drink in the secrets of the night through eyes and ears. +Strange spells were in the weaving, and no two souls are fused to +harmony without much subtle questioning of spirit, many delicate, +tremulous speculations compounded of wordless joy and wordless +fear.</p> +<p>Some issue, it was, in this matter of fusing personalities, that +at last caused Maxine to turn her head and find Blake studying +her.</p> +<p>The circumstance was trivial—a mere crossing of glances, +but it brought the color to her face as swiftly as if she had been +taken in some guilty act.</p> +<p>Blake saw the expression, and interpreted it wrongly.</p> +<p>"You are displeased, princess? I am a bad companion to-night?" +He spoke impulsively, with an anxiety in his voice that spurred her +to a desire to comfort him.</p> +<p>"When people are sympathetic, monsieur, they are companions, +whether good or bad. Is it not so?"</p> +<p>He moved a little nearer to her; neither was aware of the +movement.</p> +<p>"Do you find me sympathetic?"</p> +<p>"Indeed, yes!" Her luminous glance rested on him +thoughtfully.</p> +<p>"But you scarcely know me."</p> +<p>"Monsieur, I do know you."</p> +<p>"Through the boy, perhaps—" He spoke with a touch of +impatience, but she stopped him with upraised hand.</p> +<p>"You are angry with Max, therefore you must be silent! Anger +does not make for true judgment."</p> +<p>"Ah, that's unfair!" He laughed. "'Tis Max who is angry with me! +You know I came here to-night with open arms—to find him +flown! Still, I am willing to keep them open, and give the kiss of +peace whenever he relents—to please you."</p> +<p>"Ah, no, monsieur! To please him. To please him."</p> +<p>"Indeed, no! To please you—and no one else. If I followed +my own devices, I'd wait till he comes back, and box his ears. He'd +very well deserve it."</p> +<p>Maxine laughed; then, swift as a breeze or a racing cloud, her +mood changed.</p> +<p>"Monsieur, you care for Max?"</p> +<p>"What a question! I love Max. He's a star in my +darkness—or was, until the sun shone."</p> +<p>He paused, fearful of where his impulses had led him; but Maxine +was all sweetness, all seriousness.</p> +<p>"Am I, then, the sun, monsieur?"</p> +<p>In any other woman the words must have seemed a lure; but here +was a fairness, a frankness and dignity that lifted the question to +another and higher plane. Blake, comprehending, answered simply +with the truth.</p> +<p>"Yes, you are the sun; and all my life I have been a +sun-worshipper."</p> +<p>She made no comment; she accepted the words, waiting for the +flow of speech that she knew was close at hand—the speech, +probably irrelevant, certainly delightful, that he invariably +poured forth at such a moment.</p> +<p>"Princess, do you know my country?"</p> +<p>She shook her head, smiling a little.</p> +<p>"Ah, then you don't understand my worship! In Ireland, nature +condemns us to a long, black, wet winter and a long, gray, wet +spring, so that the heart of a man is nearly drowned in his body, +and he grows to believe that his country is nothing but a +neutral-tinted waste; but one day, when even hope is dying, a +miracle comes to pass—the sun shines out! The sun shines out, +and he suddenly sees that his waste land is the color of emeralds +and that his dripping woods are gardens, tinted like no stones that +jewellers ever handle. Oh, no wonder I am a sun-worshipper!"</p> +<p>Maxine, glowing to his sudden enthusiasm, clasped her hands, as +when she heard the music of M. Cartel.</p> +<p>"Ah, and that is your country?"</p> +<p>"That is my country, princess."</p> +<p>"I wish——" She stopped.</p> +<p>"That you could see it?"</p> +<p>She nodded.</p> +<p>"And why not? Why not—when this boy sees reason? How I +would love to show it to you! You would understand."</p> +<p>"When would you show it to me?" She spoke very low.</p> +<p>"When? Oh, perhaps in April—April, when the washed skies +are a blue that even Max could not find in his color-box, and the +bare boughs tremble with promise. In April—or, better still, +in the autumn. In October, when the lights are cool and white and +the sea is an opal; when you smell the ozone strong as violets, and +at every turn of the road a cart confronts you, heaped with bronze +seaweed and stuck with a couple of pikes that rise stark against +the sky-line, to suggest the taking of the spoils. Yes, in October! +In October, it should be!"</p> +<p>He was carried away, and she loved him for his enthusiasm.</p> +<p>"You care for your country?" she said, very softly.</p> +<p>"Yes—in an odd way! When wonder or joy or ambition comes +to me, I always have a craving to walk those roads and watch the +sea and whisper my secrets to the salt earth, but I never gratify +the desire; it belongs to the many incongruities of an incongruous +nature. But I think if great happiness came to me, I should go +back, if only for a day; or if—" He paused. "—If I were +to break my heart over anything, I believe I'd creep back, like a +child to its mother. We're odd creatures—we Irish!"</p> +<p>"I understand you," said Maxine. "You have the soul."</p> +<p>He looked down into the rue Müller, and a queer smile +touched his lips.</p> +<p>"A questionable blessing one is apt to say, princess—in +one's bad moments!"</p> +<p>"But only in one's bad moments!" Her tone was warm; her words +came from her swiftly, after the manner of Max—the manner +that Blake loved.</p> +<p>"You are quite right!" he said, "and I despise myself instantly +I have uttered such a cynicism. The capacity to feel is worth all +the pain it brings. If one had but a single moment of realization, +one should die content. That is the essential—to have known +the highest."</p> +<p>Once again Maxine had the sense of lifting a tangible veil, of +gaining a glimpse of the hidden personality—not the +half-sceptical, pleasant, friendly Blake of the boy's acquaintance, +but Blake the dreamer, the idealist who sought some grail of +infinite holiness figured in his own imagination, zealously guarded +from the scoffer and the worldling. A swift desire pulsed in her to +share the knowledge of this quest—to see the face of the +knight illumined for his adventure—to touch the buckles of +his armor.</p> +<p>"Monsieur," she whispered, "if you were to die to-night, would +you die satisfied?"</p> +<p>In the silence that had fallen upon them, Blake had turned his +face to the stars, but now again his glance sought hers.</p> +<p>"No, princess," he said, simply.</p> +<p>No weapons are more potent than brevity and simplicity. His +answer brought the blood to her face as no long dissertation could +have brought it; it was so direct, so personal, so compounded of +subtle values.</p> +<p>"Then you have not known the highest?" It was not she who framed +the question; some power outside herself constrained her to its +speaking.</p> +<p>"I have recognized perfection," he said, "but I have not known +it. And sometimes my weaker self—the primitive, barbaric +self—cries out against the limitation; sometimes—"</p> +<p>"Sometimes—?"</p> +<p>"Nothing, princess—and everything!" With a sudden wave of +self-control he brought himself back to the moment and its +responsibilities. "Forgive me! And, if you are merciful, dismiss +me! They say we Irish talk too much. I am afraid I am a true +Irishman." He laughed, but there was a sound behind the laughter +that brought tears to her eyes.</p> +<p>"Monsieur, it has been happy to-night?"</p> +<p>"It has been heaven."</p> +<p>"We are not wholly a trouble to you—Max and I?"</p> +<p>She put out her hand, and he took it.</p> +<p>"Max is my friend, princess; you are my sovereign lady."</p> +<p>The night was close about them; Paris was below, gilding the +rose of human love; the church domes were above, tending whitely +toward the stars. Maxine moved nearer to him, her heart beating +fast, her whole radiant being dispensing fragrance.</p> +<p>"Monsieur, if I am your lady, pay me homage!"</p> +<p>The enchantment was delicate and perfect; her voice wove a +spell, her slight, strong fingers trembled in his. He had been less +than man had he refused the moment. Silently he bent his head, and +his lips touched her hand in a swift, ardent kiss.</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_XXX'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XXX</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">MAXINE was in high exaltation—the +exaltation that makes no count of cost. Yesterday mattered not at +all; to-morrow might never dawn! As the outer door closed upon +Blake, she turned back into the lighted <i>salon</i>—the +little <i>salon</i> of Max's books, of Max's boyish +tastes—the little <i>salon</i> loved beyond all rooms in +Paris!</div> +<p>In a smiling dream she passed through it, on into the studio +where no light was, save the light from a shred of crescent moon +that had lately climbed into the sky. It had a curious +effect—this bare, white room with its gaunt easel, upon which +the portrait still stood, and to superstitious eyes, it might well +have suggested a ghost-chamber, peopled by dead thoughts, dead +impressions: but Maxine was in no morbid mood, happiness ran too +high—too red and warm—to permit of shadows disputing +its high place.</p> +<p>Smiling, smiling, she passed from the studio to the bedroom. The +room that had witnessed her first weakness; the room that had +brought her strength. How infinitely wise had been the conduct of +that night! How irrevocably fate had created doubt and dispersed it +by inspiration. If she had not twisted her hair about her +head—if the little Jacqueline had not entered at the critical +moment—if, for that matter, M. Cartel and his friend had not +talked late and partaken of <i>bouillon</i>—</p> +<p>She laughed; she wandered round the room, touching, appraising +the little familiar trifles associated with that past hour; at last +she sat down before her mirror, and there Jacqueline found her ten +minutes later, when curiosity could no longer be withheld and she +came creeping across the landing for news of the night's +doings.</p> +<p>Maxine heard her enter; heard her search the <i>salon</i> and +then the studio; finally called to her.</p> +<p>"Jacqueline!"</p> +<p>"Madame!"</p> +<p>The door opened, and Maxine looked round, the smile still upon +her lips.</p> +<p>"No soup for me to-night, Jacqueline? Not even tea?"</p> +<p>Jacqueline caught the happy lightness of the tone, and silently +nodded her blonde head as she tiptoed into the room.</p> +<p>"Ah, madame has had a banquet of the mind! Madame has no need of +my poor food."</p> +<p>Maxine picked up a comb and arranged the tendrils of hair that +curled about her temples.</p> +<p>"Jacqueline," she said, after a silence, "what do you consider +the highest thing?"</p> +<p>The question might have been astonishing, but her visitor did +not betray surprise by even the quiver of an eyelash.</p> +<p>"Love, madame," she said.</p> +<p>And Maxine did not flash round upon her in one of her swift +rages, did not even draw her brows together into their frowning +line. She merely gazed into the mirror, as if weighing the +statement judicially.</p> +<p>"All people do not hold that opinion," she said, at last.</p> +<p>Jacqueline shrugged her shoulders in the exercise of an infinite +patience. "No, madame?"</p> +<p>"No. M. Blake talked to-night of 'the highest thing,' and he did +not mean love."</p> +<p>"No, madame?" Jacqueline was very guileless.</p> +<p>But guileless as her tone was—nay, by reason of its +guilelessness—it touched Maxine in some shadowy corner of her +woman's consciousness; and spurred by a subtle, disquieting +suggestion, she turned in her chair, and fixed her serious gray +eyes upon her visitor.</p> +<p>"What are your thoughts, Jacqueline?"</p> +<p>Jacqueline, taken unawares, deprecated.</p> +<p>"Oh, madame—"</p> +<p>But Maxine was set to her point. "Answer my question," she +insisted. "I wish to know. I am, above all things, practical."</p> +<p>It was to Jacqueline's credit that she did not smile, that she +simply murmured: "Who doubts it, madame?"</p> +<p>"Yes; I am, above all things, practical. In this affair of the +woman, I know exactly where I stand."</p> +<p>The girl made no comment; but even to Maxine's own ears, her +declaration left a little suggestion of over-vehemence vibrating in +the air; and startled by this suggestion, she did the least wise, +the most human thing possible, she accentuated it.</p> +<p>"If I were different—if M. Blake were different, I grant +that, perhaps—" She stopped abruptly. "Jacqueline, what are +your thoughts?"</p> +<p>"Oh, madame, I have none!"</p> +<p>And here Maxine made a change of front, became very grave, +touched the gracious, encouraging note of the being to whom life is +an open book.</p> +<p>"You must not say that," she corrected, sweetly. "You always +have ideas—even if they are sometimes a little in the air. +Come! Tell me. What are your thoughts?"</p> +<p>But Jacqueline was wary, as befitted one who made no pretence of +scholarship, but who knew the old human story by heart, and daily +recited it to one ardent listener.</p> +<p>"Oh, madame, it is not fitting—"</p> +<p>"Absurd! Tell me."</p> +<p>Jacqueline, hard pressed, sought refuge in a truth.</p> +<p>"My thoughts might displease madame."</p> +<p>Maxine sat straighter in her chair. Here was another matter!</p> +<p>"Ah, so that is it! Well, now I am determined. Now I will have +the thoughts at any cost."</p> +<p>When Maxine spoke like this, when her lips closed upon her +words, when her eyes rested unflinchingly upon her listener, she +was wont to have her questions answered. Jacqueline recognized the +moment, saw Maxine in all her proud foolishness, loved her with +that swift intermingling of pity and worship that such beings as +she inevitably call forth, finally tossed her little head in her +most tantalizing manner and laughed.</p> +<p>"With madame's permission," she said, "I will wish her +good-night!"</p> +<p>"The permission is not granted."</p> +<p>"Nevertheless, madame!" Her hand was on the door.</p> +<p>"Wait!" cried Maxine, peremptorily. "I have asked you a question +and you must answer it."</p> +<p>Jacqueline stopped half-way through the doorway, and looked +back, her flower-like face alight with mischief.</p> +<p>"Pardon, madame! 'Must' is the word for the ruler. Lucien says +'must' to me; M. Blake says 'must' to"—she paused, with +maddening precision; she dropped a little impertinent +curtsy—"to M. Max!"</p> +<p>She tossed the word upon the air, as a child might blow +thistle-down; she laughed and was gone, leaving Maxine conscious of +a strange new sensation that whipped her to anger and yet, most +curiously, left her bereft of words.</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_XXXI'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXI</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">NOTHING less than absolute conviction can shake +a strong nature. A wave of doubt swept over Maxine as her little +neighbor's words died out and the door closed, leaving her to +silence and solitude; but for all her folly, she was strong, and +strength such as hers is not shaken by the shaft of a Jacqueline, +however cunningly sped.</div> +<p>She sat for long, troubled, perplexed—almost, it might +have seemed, fearful of herself—- but gradually the strength +asserted itself, the fine, blind faith within her asserted itself +in a wave of reaction.</p> +<p>Some small weakness had been hers, she admitted—some small +shrinking from the truth of things! She had been remiss in the +application of her test, allowing the dream to oust the reality in +that fascinating hour with Blake. Remiss, but no more!</p> +<p>At this stage in her meditations, she returned to the balcony, +studying the sky anew—drinking in confidence from the glory +of the stars, the slight grace of the crescent moon.</p> +<p>She became the boy again in mind and heart, enthusiastic, +assured, thirsting for action; she looked down upon Paris frankly +and without defiance—or so she deemed; and the old, wild +suggestions of 'liberty, equality, brotherhood,' seemed to rise, +ghostly, from its stones.</p> +<p>Enthusiasm is ever a gracious, pardonable thing, because in its +essentials are youth and zeal and all high, white-hot qualities +whose roots strike not in the base earth. Any sage, nay, any +simpleton, seeing Maxine upon the balcony, could have told her what +a fool she was; but who would have told it without a pause, without +a sigh for the divinity of such folly?</p> +<p>Next day she rose, refreshed of body, because refreshed of soul; +and arrayed in the garments of her strength, went forth to prove +her faith.</p> +<p>Max it was—Max of the quick, lithe feet and eager +glance—who left the rue Müller, heedless of breakfast, +and began his descent upon Paris, making straight for the heart of +the citadel with the true instinct of the raider.</p> +<p>Up to this moment, Blake's rooms had been a mere name, lying as +they did within the forbidden precincts of the fashionable world, +but to-day no corner of Paris offered terrors, for the simple +reason that Paris itself had come to be incorporated in Blake, and +that, being strong enough to dare Blake, Max was strong enough to +dare the city.</p> +<p>Self-analysis played no part in his mental process as he swung +down the steep, familiar streets. A singleness of purpose, high as +it was foolish, possessed and inspired him. He loved Blake with a +wonderful, unsexual love, and he yearned to lay himself at his +feet, to offer him of his best—gifts of the gods, given with +free hands from a free heart.</p> +<p>Something of the sweet foolishness must have shown upon his +face, for when he reached his destination, Blake's +<i>concierge</i>, usually a taciturn individual, offered him a +welcome as he stepped from the brilliant sunshine into the dim cool +hallway, and gave him the information he needed with a good +grace.</p> +<p>So far, well! But happy assurance emanated from him, and success +is compounded of such assurance. He knocked upon Blake's door, +certain that Blake himself and not his servant would answer to his +summons; and as though the gods smiled at the childish confidence, +his certainty was rewarded. The sound of a familiar step set his +pulses racing, a hand was laid upon the door, and desire became +accomplished.</p> +<p>"What! Max?"</p> +<p>"Yes, Max! Is he welcome?" All the hoarded strength of the night +was audible in the words. Max threw up his head, met Blake's eyes, +held out his hand—the boy in every particular.</p> +<p>"Welcome? As welcome as the flowers in May! Come in! Come along +in!" Blake had accepted the masquerade; all was as before.</p> +<p>Together they passed into the <i>salon</i>, and instantly Blake +became host—the <i>rôle</i> of <i>rôles</i> for +him.</p> +<p>"Now, boy, don't tell me you have breakfasted! But even if you +have, you must breakfast again. Come, sit down! Sit down! My fellow +makes most excellent coffee—good as Madame Gustav's of the +rue Fabert! Remember the rue Fabert?"</p> +<p>So he rattled on, placing a second chair, seeking an additional +cup, and ever Max listened, happy with an acute happiness that +almost touched the verge of tears.</p> +<p>But though emotion choked him he played his part gallantly. He +was the boy of old days to the very life, swaggering a little in a +youthful forgivable conceit, playing the lord of creation to an +amused, sympathetic audience.</p> +<p>"Ned," he cried at last, flinging his words from him with all +the old frank ease, "tell me to apologize!"</p> +<p>Blake looked up, and the affection, the tolerance in the look +quivered through Max's senses.</p> +<p>"Now, boy! Now!" he warned. "Be careful what you're saying! It's +only very ordinary friends talk about apologies. And I don't think +we have ever been very ordinary friends."</p> +<p>"No! No! But still—"</p> +<p>"Well, say your say!"</p> +<p>The tone was full of indulgence, but, also, it was touched with +subtler things. This unexpected invasion had pleased and flattered +Blake; it spoke an influence used on his behalf that he dared not +have claimed—dared not have expected.</p> +<p>Max walked to the window, looked down an instant into the +brilliant, sunlit street, came back to Blake's side, all with a +swift impulsiveness.</p> +<p>"Ned, I am the same friend—the same comrade?"</p> +<p>"Indeed, yes!"</p> +<p>"But you do not think I possess a soul?"</p> +<p>Blake, taken unawares, colored like any boy.</p> +<p>"Oh, come!"</p> +<p>"But it is true. I know, for I have been told. And you are +wrong—quite wrong."</p> +<p>Blake was about to laugh, but he looked at the young face, +suddenly grown grave, and his own words came back to him guiltily. +'Max's lips were made for laughter—his eyes are too bright +for tears!'</p> +<p>"Poor little faun!" he said, with jesting tenderness. "Have I +misjudged you?"</p> +<p>Max nodded seriously. "You have. She has made me realize."</p> +<p>"Ah! That was like her!" It was Blake's turn to walk to the +window; and the boy, watching him eagerly, was unable to place the +constraint that suddenly tinged his voice, suddenly veiled his +manner.</p> +<p>"Ned," he was urged to say, "tell me! Has she brought us nearer +together—my sister Maxine?"</p> +<p>Blake hesitated; for even your Irishman, brimming to confide, is +reticent when he stands before his holy of holies.</p> +<p>"Ned, tell me!"</p> +<p>The tone was enticing. Blake turned from the window, strode back +across the room, cast an affectionate arm about the boy's +shoulder.</p> +<p>"She is a worker of miracles—your sister Maxine!"</p> +<p>The words were warm, the clasp was warm; Max's inspiration +gushed up, a fountain of faith.</p> +<p>"She understands you? She shows you 'the higher things'?"</p> +<p>"By God, she does!"</p> +<p>"Then you shall see her once more!" The ideal was predominant; +zeal and youth, the white-hot gifts, were lavished at Blake's feet. +"Come to the studio to-night, and I shall leave you in her company +willingly, gladly, with all my heart. Ned! Say you will come!"</p> +<p>And Blake, dreaming his own dream, pressed the boy's shoulder +and laughed, and answered with the jest that covers so many +things.</p> +<p>"Will I come? Will a man turn back from the gate of heaven when +Saint Peter uses his key?"</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_XXXII'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXII</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">PERFECT self-deception can be a rare, almost a +precious thing, ranking with all absurd, delightful faiths from the +child's sweet certainty of fairydom to the enthusiast's belief in +the potency of his own star.</div> +<p>Maxine, in her little white bedroom, arraying herself for Blake, +was wrapped in a cloud of illusion, translated to a sphere above +the common earth by this magic blindness. Never again while life +lasted was she to stand as she stood to-night, eyes searching her +mirror with perfect steadfast sincerity, lips parted in breathless +joy of confidence. Never again! But for the moment the illusion was +complete. She saw the triumphing soul of Max glimmer through her +own fair body, saw the boy's faith carried like a banner in her +woman's hands.</p> +<p>Her dressing was a tremulous affair, tinged with a fine +excitement. Again she clothed herself in the soft white dress, the +long gray cloak of former meetings; but, banishing the willing +Jacqueline, she coiled her hair with her own hands and last, most +significant touch, pinned a white rose at her breast.</p> +<p>It was the night of nights! No need to assure herself of the +fact; the knowledge sang in her blood, burned in her cheeks. The +night of nights! When Maxine would receive the soul of Blake and +place it, mystic and sacramental, in the keeping of Max!</p> +<p>The folly of the affair, the naivety of it, made for tears as +well as smiles; and Maxine, glowing to the eternal, aspiring flame, +looked her last into the little mirror that had so carefully +preserved its secrets, and passed across the hall to the +<i>salon</i>, where the night stretched beckoning, velvet fingers +through the open window.</p> +<p>Young, luxurious summer palpitated through the dusk, fanning the +ardor in her heart. She ran forward, drawn by its allurement; then, +all at once, she stopped, her hand flying to her heart, her breath +suspended in a little cry of surprise. Blake had slipped unheard +into the <i>appartement</i>, and was awaiting her on the +balcony.</p> +<p>At her cry, he turned—wheeled round toward her—and +his eyes scanned her surprised, betraying face.</p> +<p>"You are glad!" he cried, in sudden self-expression. "You are +glad to see me!" The words were hot as they were abrupt, they +seared her with their swiftness and their conviction, they were as +a raiding army before which all ramparts fell. Mentally, morally, +she felt herself sway until preconceived ideas drifted to and fro, +weeds upon a tide.</p> +<p>"Yes," she answered, scarcely aware of her own voice. "I am +glad."</p> +<p>Where now were the subtle ways, the divers interlacing paths +wherein Maxine was to pursue her chase, delivering her quarry into +the hands of Max? Where were the barbed and potent shafts whereby +that capture was to be achieved? All had vanished into the night; +she stood before her intended victim unarmed, ungirt, +and—miracle of miracles—undismayed!</p> +<p>She and Blake confronted each other. Their lips were dumb, but +their looks embraced. Fate—life—was in the air, in the +myriad voices of the night, the myriad pulses of their bodies, the +myriad thoughts that wheeled and flashed within their brains.</p> +<p>This knowledge rushed in upon her swimming senses, upon eyes +suddenly opened, ears suddenly made free of the music of the +spheres; and her hand—the hand that had first girded on her +boy's attire—went out to Blake like that of any girl.</p> +<p>It was nature's signal, stronger in its frailty than any +attained art of woman; and he answered to it as man has ever +answered—ever will answer.</p> +<p>"Oh, my love!" he cried. "My love!" And his arms went round +her.</p> +<p>It is sacrilege to attempt analysis of birth or love or death. +Death and birth, the mysteries! Love, the revelation! Man, as he +has existed through all time, had being in Blake's embrace; woman, +as she has been from the first, lived in Maxine's leap of the +heart, her leap of the spirit as the ecstasy of his touch thrilled +her. Here was no coldness; here was no sensuality. Divinity +manifested itself, no longer above, but within them. The lights in +the sky were divine, but so were the lights of the town. Divinity +fired their souls, merging each in each; but as truly it fired +their clasping hands, their lips trembling to kiss.</p> +<p>Maxine—removed by fabulous distances from Max, from the +studio, from all accepted things—breathed her wonderment in +an unconscious appeal.</p> +<p>"Speak to me!"</p> +<p>And Blake, awed and enraptured, whispered his answer.</p> +<p>"There is nothing to say that you do not know. I worship you. I +bent my knee and kissed the hem of your garment the first moment it +brushed my path. There is nothing to say that you do not know. I +have waited all my life for this."</p> +<p>"All your life?"</p> +<p>"All my life. But love is not reckoned by time. One +dreams—and one wakes."</p> +<p>"You dreamed—" She closed her eyes, her ears drank in the +cadences of his voice.</p> +<p>"Always! As a child, I dreamed over my play; as a boy, I dreamed +over my books—and as a man, over my loves. I was never in +love with woman—always in love with love."</p> +<p>"And now?"</p> +<p>"I am awake—I have come into my inheritance! My love! My +love!" It was an instant of intense sensation. She could feel the +beating of his heart; his fingers and hers were interlaced. +"Maxine! Open your eyes! Look at me!"</p> +<p>Obediently—any woman to any man—she opened them and +met his gaze.</p> +<p>"You know? You understand?"</p> +<p>She stood rigid, her eyes wide, her nostrils dilated—a +creature swaying upon the verge of an abyss, contemplating a plunge +into space.</p> +<p>"Maxine!" he said again. "Maxine!"</p> +<p>It was the primitive human cry. She heard and acknowledged it in +every fibre of her being; she drew a swift, sharp breath, then, +with a free gesture, cast her arms about his neck.</p> +<p>"Ned! Ned! Say again that you love me! Say it a thousand, say it +a million times and for every time you say it, I will tell you +twice that I love you."</p> +<p>Passion, intoxication sped the words, and Blake's mouth, closing +upon hers, broke the ecstasy of speech.</p> +<p>"I love you! I worship you! You are my life. You are +myself."</p> +<p>Reality vibrated through his speech; and Maxine, hearing, lost +herself. With arms still clasped about him, she leaned her body +backward, gazing into his face.</p> +<p>"Again! Say it again!"</p> +<p>"You are my life! We are one! Maxine! Maxine!" His glance burned +her, his arms were close about her. With a sudden ardent movement, +she caught his face between her hands, drew it down, and kissed it +full upon the mouth, not once but many times, fiercely, closely; +then, with a little cry, inarticulate as the cry of an animal, she +freed herself and fled through the <i>salon</i>, through the hall +and out upon the landing, the door of the <i>appartement</i> +closing behind her.</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_XXXIII'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXIII</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">THE door of her <i>appartement</i> closed behind +Maxine, and she turned, swift as a coursed hare, to the door of M. +Cartel.</div> +<p>No hesitation touched her; she needed sanctuary; sanctuary she +must have. She opened her neighbor's door, careless of what might +lie behind, bringing with her into the quiet rooms a breath of +fierce disorder.</p> +<p>The living-room, with its piano and its homely chairs and table, +was lighted by a common lamp; and the little Jacqueline, the only +occupant, sat in the radius of the light, peacefully sewing at a +blue muslin gown that was to adorn a Sunday excursion into the +country.</p> +<p>At the sound of the stormy entry she merely raised her head; but +at sight of her visitor, she was on her feet in an instant, the +heap of muslin flowing in a blue cascade from her lap to the +floor.</p> +<p>"Madame!"</p> +<p>"Hide me!" cried Maxine.</p> +<p>"Madame!"</p> +<p>"Lock the outer door! And if M. Blake should knock—"</p> +<p>Jacqueline made no further comment. When a visitor's face is +blanched and her limbs tremble as did those of Maxine, the +Jacquelines of this world neither question nor hesitate. She went +across the room without a word, and the key clicked in the +lock.</p> +<p>Maxine was standing in the middle of the room when Jacqueline +returned; her body was still quivering, her nostrils fluttering, +her fingers twisting and intertwisting in an excess of emotion; and +at sight of the familiar little figure, words broke from her with +the fierceness of a freed torrent.</p> +<p>"Jacqueline! You see before you a mad woman! A mad +woman—and one filled with the fear of her madness! They say +the insane are mercifully oblivious. It is untrue!" She almost +cried the last words and, turning, began a swift pacing of the +room.</p> +<p>"Madame!" Jacqueline caught her breath at her own daring. +"Madame, you know at last, then, that he loves you?"</p> +<p>Maxine stopped and her burning eyes fixed themselves upon the +girl. This speech of Jacqueline's was a breach of all their former +relations, but her brain had no room for pride. She was grappling +with vital facts.</p> +<p>"I know at last that he loves me?" she repeated, confusedly.</p> +<p>"That he loves you, madame; that, unknowingly, he has always +loved you. How else could he have treated Monsieur Max so +sacredly—almost as he might have treated his own child?"</p> +<p>But Maxine was not dealing in psychological subtleties.</p> +<p>"Love!" she cried out. "Love! All the world is in a conspiracy +over this love!"</p> +<p>"Because love is the only real thing, madame."</p> +<p>"Perhaps! But not the love of which you speak. The love of the +soul, but not the love of the body!"</p> +<p>"Madame, can one truly give the soul and refuse the body? Is not +the instinct of love to give all?"</p> +<p>The little Jacqueline spoke her truth with a frail confidence +very touching to behold. She was a child of the people, her sole +weapons against the world were a certain blonde beauty, a certain +engaging youthfulness; but she looked Maxine steadfastly in the +eyes, meeting the anger, the scorn, the fear compassed in her +glance.</p> +<p>"I know the world, madame; it is not a pretty place. When I was +sixteen years old, I left my parents because it called to +me—and in the distance its voice was pleasant. I left my +home; I had lovers." She shrugged her shoulders with an extreme +philosophy. "I tried everything—except love. Then—I met +Lucien!" Her philosophy merged curiously to innocence, almost to +the soft innocence of a child. "I ran away again, madame; I fled to +Lize." She paused. "Poor Lize! She has a good heart! That was the +night at the Bal Tabarin. That night Lucien opened his arms, and I +flung myself into them."</p> +<p>She spoke with perfect artlessness, ignorant of a world other +than her own, innocent of a moral code other than that which she +followed.</p> +<p>Once again, as on the day she had first visited the +<i>appartement</i> and made acquaintance with the old painter and +his wife, dread of some mysterious force filled Maxine. What +marvellous power was this that could smile secure at poverty and +oblivion—that could cast a halo of true emotion over a Bal +Tabarin?</p> +<p>"It is not true!" she cried out, in answer to herself.</p> +<p>"Not true, madame? Why did I choose Lucien, who is nothing to +look upon—who is an artist and penniless?"</p> +<p>She ran across to Maxine; she caught her by the shoulders.</p> +<p>"Oh, madame! How beautiful you are—and how blind! You +bandage your eyes, and you tighten the knot. Oh, my God, if I could +but open it for you!"</p> +<p>"And reduce me to kisses and folly and tears?"</p> +<p>"One may drift into heaven on a kiss!" Jacqueline's voice was +like some precious metal, molten and warm.</p> +<p>"Or one may slip into hell! Do you think I have not known what +it is to kiss? It was from a kiss I fled to-night."</p> +<p>Her tone was fervent as it was reckless, and Jacqueline stood +aghast. The entire denial of love was comprehensible to her, if +inexplicable; but her mind refused this problem of realization and +rejection.</p> +<p>"Madame—" she began, quickly, but she paused on the word, +listening; the sound of Max's door opening and closing came +distinctly to the ear, followed by a footstep descending the +stairs. "Monsieur Édouard!" she whispered, finger on +lip.</p> +<p>Maxine, also, had heard, and a look of relief broke the tension +of her expression.</p> +<p>"He is gone. That is well!"</p> +<p>Something in her look, in her voice startled Jacqueline +anew.</p> +<p>"Why do you speak like that, madame? Why do you look so +cold?"</p> +<p>"I am sane again, Jacqueline."</p> +<p>"And Monsieur Édouard? Is he sane, I wonder? Is he cold? +Oh, madame, he loves you!"</p> +<p>"I am going to prove his love."</p> +<p>"But, madame! Oh, madame, love isn't a matter of proving; it is +an affair of giving—giving—giving with all the +heart."</p> +<p>"Trust me, Jacqueline! I understand. Good-night!"</p> +<p>Jacqueline framed no word, but her eyes spoke many things.</p> +<p>"Say good-night, Jacqueline! Forget that you have entertained a +mad woman!"</p> +<p>"Good-night, madame!"</p> +<p>But the little Jacqueline, left alone, shook her head many +times, leaving her heap of blue muslin neglected upon the +floor.</p> +<p>"Poor child!" she said softly to herself. "Poor child! Poor +child!"</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_XXXIV'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXIV</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">IT was midway between the hours of nine and ten +on the morning following. Max was standing in the studio; the +easel, still bearing the portrait, had been pushed into a corner, +its face to the wall; everywhere the warm sun fell upon a rigid +severity of aspect, as though the room had instinctively been bared +for the enacting of some scene.</div> +<p>Max himself, in a subtle manner, struck the same note. The old +painting blouse he usually wore had been discarded for the blue +serge suit, severely masculine in aspect; his hair had been reduced +to an usual order, his whole appearance was rigid, active, braced +for the coming moment.</p> +<p>And this moment arrived sooner even than anticipation had +suggested. The clocks of Paris had barely clashed the half hour, +when his strained ears caught a step upon the landing, a sharp +knock upon the door, and before his brain could leap to fear or +joy, Blake was in the <i>appartement</i>—in the room.</p> +<p>There was no mistaking Blake's attitude as he swung into the +boy's presence; it was patent in every movement, every glance, even +had his white, strained face not testified to it. Coming into the +studio, he affected nothing—neither apology, greeting, nor +explanation; without preamble he came straight to the matter that +possessed his mind.</p> +<p>"You know of this?" He held out a square white envelope, bearing +bold feminine handwriting—writing over which time and thought +and labor had been expended in this same room ten hours earlier. +"You know this?"</p> +<p>"Yes." Max's tongue clicked dryly against the roof of his mouth, +but his eyes bore the fire of Blake's scrutiny.</p> +<p>"You know the contents?"</p> +<p>"Yes."</p> +<p>"'Yes!' And you can stand there like a graven image. Do you +realize it, at all? Do you grasp it?"</p> +<p>"I—think I understand."</p> +<p>"You think you understand?" Blake laughed in a manner that was +not agreeable. "Understand, forsooth! You, who have never seen +anything human or divine that you rate above your own little +finger! Understand!" He laughed again, then suddenly his attitude +changed. "But I haven't come here to waste words! You know that, +your sister has left Paris?"</p> +<p>Max nodded, finding no words.</p> +<p>"She tells me here that she has gone—gone out of my +life—that I am to forget her."</p> +<p>"Well?"</p> +<p>"Well, that has only one meaning, when it comes from the one +woman. I must know where she is."</p> +<p>Max set his lips and studiously averted his face.</p> +<p>"Come! Tell me where she is! Time counts."</p> +<p>"I do not know."</p> +<p>"I expected that! You're lying, of course; but when you're up +against a man in my frame of mind, lies are poor ammunition. I +don't ask you why she has gone—that's between her and me, +that's my affair. But I must know where she is."</p> +<p>"I cannot tell you."</p> +<p>"You cannot refuse to tell me! Look here, boy, you've always +seen my soft side, you don't believe there is a hard one. But we +Irish can surprise you."</p> +<p>Max had no physical fear, but he backed involuntarily before the +menace in Blake's eyes.</p> +<p>"I'm not lying to you, Ned. I cannot tell you, because I do not +know. My sister Maxine has ceased to exist—for me, as much as +for you."</p> +<p>"Stop!" Blake stepped close to him and for an instant his hand +was raised, but it fell at once to his side, and he laughed once +more, harshly and self-consciously. "Don't play with me, boy! I've +had a hard knock."</p> +<p>"I'm not playing. It's true! It's true!" Dark eyes, with dark +lines beneath them, stared at Blake, carrying conviction. "It's +true! It's true! I do not know."</p> +<p>"God, boy!" Blake faltered in his vehemence.</p> +<p>"It's true!" said Max again.</p> +<p>"True that she's gone—vanished? That I can't find her? +That you can't find her? It isn't!"</p> +<p>"It is."</p> +<p>The blood rushed into Blake's face. For a moment he stood rigid +and speechless, drinking in the fact; then his feelings broke +bounds.</p> +<p>"It's true? And you stand there, gaping! God, boy, rouse +yourself!" He caught him by the shoulder and shook him. "Don't you +know what this is? Have you never seen a man dealt a mortal +blow?"</p> +<p>"Love is not everything!" cried Max.</p> +<p>"Not everything? Oh, you poor, damned little fool, how bitterly +you'll retract that prating! Not everything? Isn't water everything +in a parched desert? Isn't the sun everything to a frozen world?" +He stopped, suddenly loosing the boy, casting him from him, a thing +of no significance.</p> +<p>Max, faint and pale, caught at his arm.</p> +<p>"Ned! Ned! I am here. I am your friend. I love you."</p> +<p>Blake, in all his whirl of passion, paused.</p> +<p>"You!" he said, and no long eloquence could have accentuated the +blank amazement, the searing irony of the word.</p> +<p>But Max closed all his senses.</p> +<p>"Ned! Ned! Look at the truth of life! There is in me everything +but one thing."</p> +<p>"Then, by God, that one thing is everything! It's the woman and +the man that rule this world. The woman and the man—the soul +and the body! All other things are dust and chaff."</p> +<p>"You feel that now. But time—time balances. We will be +happy yet. We will relive the old days—"</p> +<p>Blake turned, wrenching away his arm. "The old days? Do you +imagine Paris can hold me now she is gone?"</p> +<p>"Ned!"</p> +<p>"Do you imagine I can live in this town—climb these +steps—stand on that balcony, that breathes of her?"</p> +<p>Max was leaning back against the window-frame. His brain seemed +empty of blood, his heart seemed to pulse in a strange, unfamiliar +fashion, while somewhere within his consciousness a tiny voice +commanded him urgently to preserve his strength—not to betray +himself.</p> +<p>"You will go away?" he heard himself say. "Where will you go? To +Ireland?"</p> +<p>"To Ireland—or hell!" Blake walked to the door.</p> +<p>"Then you are leaving me?"</p> +<p>"You shall know where I am."</p> +<p>"And if I should need you?"</p> +<p>Blake made no answer; he did not even look back.</p> +<p>"If—if she should need you?"</p> +<p>He turned.</p> +<p>"I will come to her at any moment—from anywhere."</p> +<p>The door closed. He was gone, and Max stood leaning against the +window. His blood still circulated oddly, and now the inner voice +with its reiterated commands was rising, rising until it became the +thunder of a sea that filled his ears, annihilating all other +sounds. A swift, sharp terror smote him; he sought desperately to +maintain his consciousness, but, breaking across the effort an icy +breath crept up from nowhere, fanning his cheek, suspending all +struggle, and a palpable darkness, like the darkness of brooding +wings, closed in upon him, bringing oblivion.</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_XXXV'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXV</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">WHO shall depict the soul of woman? As well +essay to number the silk hairs on the moth's wing, or paint truly +the hues in the blown bubble! The soul of woman dwells apart, +subject to no laws, trammelled by no precedent; mysterious in its +essence, strong in its very frailty, it passes through many phases +to its ultimate end, working as all great agents work, silently and +in the dark.</div> +<p>With the passing of Blake, the spiritual Maxine entered upon a +new phase—was arbitrarily forced into a new phase of +existence. The passing of Blake was sudden, tremendous, devastating +in its effect, leaving as consequences a moral blackness, a moral +chaos.</p> +<p>It was a new Maxine who wakened to the realization of facts; +rather, it was a new Max, for it was the masculine, not the +feminine ego that turned a set face to circumstance in the moment +of desertion—that sedulously wrapped itself in the garment of +pride spun and fashioned in happier hours.</p> +<p>'Now is the test! Now is the time!' Max insisted, drowning by +insistence the poignant cry of the heart; and to this watchword he +marched against fate.</p> +<p>With set purpose he faced life and its vexed questions in that +bitter, precipitate moment. Again it was the beginning of things; +but it was the rue Müller and not the Gare du Nord that was +the scene of action; the May sun fell burning on the Parisian +pavements, while the blood of the adventurer ran slow and cold. The +illusions bred of the winter dawn had been dispersed by the light +of day; life was no glad enterprise—no climbing of golden +heights, but the barren crossing of a trackless region where no +hand proffered guidance and false signs misled the weary eyes. One +weapon alone was necessary in the pursuance of the gray +journey—a sure command—a sure possession of one's +self!</p> +<p>This thought alone made harmony with the music of the past, and +toward its thin sound his ears were strained. Comradeship had come +and gone—love had come and gone—the fundamental idea +that had lured him to Paris alone remained, stark, colorless, but +recognizable!</p> +<p>One must possess one's self! And to achieve this supreme good, +one must close the senses and seal up the heart, and be as a +creature already dead!</p> +<p>To this profound end, Max locked himself in his studio and sat +alone while the May morning waxed; to this profound end, moving as +in a dream, he at last rose at midday and left the +<i>appartement</i> in quest of his customary meal. What that meal +was to consist of—whether stones or bread—did not touch +his brain, for his mind was solely exercised with wonder at the +fact that his will could command the search for food—could +compel his dry lips to the savorless duty of eating.</p> +<p>As he left the little <i>café</i>, paying his score, he +half expected to see his wonder reflected on the good face of +madame the proprietress, and was curiously shocked to receive the +usual cheerful smile, the usual cheerful 'good-day!' that took no +heed of his heavy plight.</p> +<p>It was that cheerful superficiality of Paris that can so +delightfully mirror one's mood when the heart is light—that +can ring so sadly hollow when the soul is sick. It cut Max with a +bitter sharpness; and, like a man fleeing from his own shadow, he +fled the shop.</p> +<p>Outside in the dazzling glitter of the streets, the sun blinded +him, accentuating the scorching pain of unshed tears; the very +pavements seemed to rise up and sear him with their memories. Here +in this very street Blake and he had strolled and smoked on many a +night, wending homeward from the play or the opera, laughing, +jesting, arguing as they paced arm-in-arm up and down before the +sleeping shops. The thought stung him with an amazing sharpness, +and he fled from it, as he had fled from the <i>café</i> and +its smiling proprietress.</p> +<p>His descent upon Paris was a descent upon a region of beauty. +The sense of summer lay like a bloom upon the flowers for sale at +the street corners, and shimmered—a ribbon of silver +sunlight—across the pale-blue sky. The trees in the grand +boulevards shone in their green trappings; rainbow colors glinted +in the shop windows; everywhere, save in the heart of Max, was +fairness and youth and joy.</p> +<p>Supremely conscious of himself, adrift and wretched, he passed +through the crowds of people—passed from sun to shade, from +shade to sun—with a hopeless eager haste that possessed no +object save to outstrip his thoughts.</p> +<p>It is a curious fact that, to the desponding, water has a +magnetic call; without knowledge, almost without volition, his +footsteps turned toward the river—that river which has so +closely girdled Paris through all her varied life. Smooth and pale, +it slipped secretly past its quays as Max approached, indifferent +to the tragedies it concealed, as it was indifferent to the ardent +life that ebbed and flowed across its many bridges. On its breast, +the small, dark craft of the city nestled lazily; to right and left +along its banks, the sun struck glints of gold and bronze from +spire and monument; while, close against its sides, on the very +parapet of its quays, there was in progress that quaint book +traffic that strikes so intimate a note in the life of the +quarter.</p> +<p>It is a charming thought that in the heart of Paris—Paris, +the pleasure city—there is time and space for the vender of +old books to set out his wares, to lay them open to the kindly sky, +to tempt the studious and idle alike to pause and dally and lose +themselves in that most fascinating of all pursuits—- the +search for the treasure that is never found. Max paused beside this +row of tattered bookstalls, and quivered to the stab of a new pain. +Scores of happy mornings he had wandered with Blake in this +vicarious garden of delight, flitting from the books to the curio +shops across the roadway, from the curios back again to the books, +while Blake talked with his easy friendliness to the odd beings who +bartered in this open market.</p> +<p>It was pain inexpressible—it was loneliness made +palpable—to stand by the tressel stalls and allow his eyes to +rest upon the familiar merchandise; and for the third time in that +black morning he fled from his own shadow—fled onward into +the darker, older Paris—the Paris of tradition, where the +church of Notre Dame frowns, silently scornful of those who disturb +its peace.</p> +<p>As he approached the great building, its sombre impressiveness +fell upon his troubled spirit mercifully as its shadow fell across +the blinding sunlight. He paused in the wide space that fronts the +heavy doors, and caught his breath as the fugitive of old might +have caught breath at sight of sanctuary.</p> +<p>Here was a place of shade and magnitude—- a place +untouched by memory!</p> +<p>Blindly he moved toward the door, entered the church, walked up +the aisle. Few sight-seers disturbed the sense of peace, for +outside it was high noon and Paris was engrossed in the serious +business of <i>déjeuner</i>; no service was in progress; all +was still, all dim save where a taper of a lamp glowed before a +shrine or the sun struck sharp through the splendor of stained +glass.</p> +<p>There are few churches—to some minds there is no other +church—where the idea of the profound broods as it does in +Notre Dame. The sense of dignity, the curious ancient scent +compounded by time, the mystic colors of the great windows breathe +of the infinite.</p> +<p>Max, walking up the aisle, looked at the dark walls; +Max—modern, critical—looked up at the wondrous rose +window, and felt the overshadowing power of superhuman things. The +modern world crumbled before the impassive silence, criticism found +no challenge in its brooding spirit, for the mind cannot analyze +what it cannot measure.</p> +<p>Max subscribed to no creed; but, by a strange impulsion, born of +dead ages, his eyes fell from the glowing window and turned to the +high altar. He did not want to pray; he rebelled against the idea +of supplication; but the circling thoughts within him concentrated +suddenly, he clasped his hands with a clasp so fierce that it was +pain.</p> +<p>"Oh, God!" he said, under his breath. "God! God, let me possess +myself!" And as if some chord had snapped, relieving the tension in +his brain, he dropped upon his knees, as he had once done at the +foot of his own staircase and, crouching against a pillar, wept +like a lost child.</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='PART_IV'></a> +<h2>PART IV</h2> +<br> +<br> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_XXXVI'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXVI</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">THE last days of August in Paris! A deadly +oppression of heat; a brooding inertia that lay upon the city like +a cloak!</div> +<p>In the little <i>appartement</i> every window stood gaping, +thirsting for a draught of air; but no stir lightened the haze that +weighed upon the atmosphere, no faintest hint of breeze ruffled the +plantation shrubs, dark in their fulness of summer foliage. +Stillness lay upon Montmartre—upon the rue +Müller—most heavily of all, upon the home of Max.</p> +<p>It was an obvious, weighty stillness unconnected with repose. It +seemed as though the spirit of the place were fled, and that in its +stead the vacant quiet of death reigned. In the <i>salon</i> the +empty hearth hurt the observer with its poignant suggestion of past +comradeship, dead fires, long hours when the spring gales had +whistled through the plantation and stories had been told and +dreams woven to the spurt of blue and copper flames. The place had +an aspect of desertion; no book lay thrown, face downward, upon +chair or table; no flowers glowed against the white walls, though +flowers were to be had for the asking in a land that teemed with +summer fruitfulness.</p> +<p>This was the <i>salon</i>; but in the studio the note of loss +was still more sharply struck. Not because the easel, drawn into +the full light, offered to the gaze a crude, unfinished study, nor +yet because a laden palette was cast upon the floor to consort with +tubes and brushes, but because the presiding genius of the place +Max—Max the debonair, Max the adventurous—was seated on +a chair before his canvas, a prey to black despair.</p> +<p>Max was thinner. The great heat of August—or some more +potent cause—had smoothed the curves from his youthful face, +drawn the curled lips into an unfamiliar hardness and painted +purple shadows beneath the eyes. Max had fought a long fight in the +three months that had dwindled since the morning of Blake's going, +and a long moral fight has full as many scars to leave behind as a +battle of physical issues. The saddest human experience is to view +alone the scenes one has viewed through other eyes—to walk +solitary where one has walked in company—to have its +particular barbed shaft aimed at one from every stick and stone +that mark familiar ways. All this Max had known, wrapping himself +in his pride, keeping long silence, fighting his absurd, brave +fight.</p> +<p>'The first days will be the worst!' he had assured himself, +walking back from Notre Dame in the searching sun, heedless of who +might notice his red eyes. 'The first days will be the worst!' And +this formula he had repeated in the morning, standing uninspired +and wretched before a blank canvas. Then had come Blake's first +message—a note written from Sweden without care or comfort, +importing nothing, indicating nothing beyond the place at which the +writer might be found, and tears—torrents of tears—had +testified to the fierce anticipation, the crushing disappointment +for which it was responsible.</p> +<p>He had sent no answer to the cold communication—no answer +had been desired, and calling himself by every name contempt could +coin, he had pushed forward along the lonely road, companioned by +his work. But he himself had once said: 'One must come naked and +whole to art, as one must come naked and whole to nature,' and he +had spoken a truth. Art is no anodyne for a soul wounded in other +fields, and Art closed arms to him when most he wooed her. He threw +himself into work with pitiable vehemence in those first black +weeks. By day, he haunted the galleries and attended classes like +any art student; by night, he ranged the streets and +<i>cafés</i>, seeking inspiration, returning to his lonely +room to lie wakeful, fighting his ghosts, or else to sob himself to +sleep.</p> +<p>His theory of life had been amply proved. Blake had prated of +the soul, but it had been the body he had desired! Again and again +that thought had struck home, a savage spur goading him in daytime +to a wild plying of his brushes, gripping him in the lonely +darkness of the night-time until his sobs were suspended by their +very poignancy and the scalding tears dried before they could +fall.</p> +<p>He saw darkly, he saw untruly, but the world is according to the +beholder's vision, and in those sultry days, when summer waxed and +Paris emptied, opening its gates to the foreigner, all the colors +had receded from existence and he had tasted the lees of life.</p> +<p>And now to-day it seemed that the climax had been reached. +Seated idly before his canvas, the whole procession of his Paris +life unwound before him—from the first tumultuous hour, when +he had entered the Hôtel Railleux on fire for freedom, to +this moment when, with dull resentful eyes, he confronted the sum +of his labors—an unfinished, sorry study devoid of +inspiration.</p> +<p>He stared at the flat canvas—the rough outline of his +picture—the reckless splashing on of color; and, abruptly, as +if a hand had touched him, he sprang to his feet, making havoc +among the paint tubes that strewed the floor, and turned summarily +to the open window.</p> +<p>It was after eight o'clock, but the hazy, unreal daylight of a +summer evening made all things visible. He scanned the plantation, +viewing it as if in some travesty of morning; he looked down upon +the city, sleeping uneasily in preparation for the inevitable night +of pleasure, and a sudden loathing of Paris shook him. It seemed as +if some gauzy illusive garment had been lifted from a fair body and +that his eyes, made free of the white limbs, had discerned a +corpse.</p> +<p>By a natural flight of ideas, the loathing of the city turned to +loathing of himself—to an unsatiable desire for +self-forgetfulness, for self-effacement. Solitude was no longer +tenable, the walls of the <i>appartement</i> seemed to close in +about him, stifling—suffocating him. With a feverish +movement, he turned from the window, picked up his hat and fled the +room.</p> +<p>On the landing he paused for a moment before the door of M. +Cartel. He had paid many visits to M. Cartel under stress of +circumstances similar to this, and invariably M. Cartel—and, +moving in his shadow, the demure Jacqueline—had proffered a +generous hospitality—talking to him of work, of politics, of +Paris, but with a Frenchman's inimitable tact.</p> +<p>For all this unobtrusive attention he had been silently +grateful, but to-night he stood by the door hesitating; for long he +hesitated, honestly fighting with his mood, but at last the +desperation of the mood prevailed. Who could talk of work, when +work was as an evil smell in the nostrils? Who could talk of +politics, when the overthrow of nations would not stimulate the +mind? He turned on his heel with a little exclamation, hopeless as +it was cynical, and ran down the stairs with the gait of one whose +destination concerns neither the world nor himself.</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_XXXVII'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXVII</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">MAX swung down the Escalier de Sainte-Marie in +as reckless a mood as ever possessed being of either sex. Nothing +of the sweet Maxine was discernible in face or carriage; the boy +predominated, but a boy possessed of a callousness that was +pathetic seen hand-in-hand with youth.</div> +<p>For the first time he was viewing Paris bereft of the glamour of +romance; for the first time the Masque of Folly passed before him, +licentious and unashamed. Many an hour, in days gone by, he had +discussed with Blake this lighter side of many-sided Paris, and +with Blake's wise and penetrating gaze he had seen it in true +perspective; but to-night there was no sane interpreter to temper +vision, to-night he was bitterly alone, and his mind, from long +austerity, long concentration upon work, had swung with grievous +suddenness to the opposing pole of thought. He had no purpose in +his descent from the rue Müller, he had no desire of vice as +an antidote to pain, but his loathing of Paris was drawing him to +her with that morbid craving to hurt and rehurt his bruised soul +that assails the artist in times of misery.</p> +<p>The streets were quiet, for it was scarcely nine o'clock, and as +yet the lethargy of the day lay heavy on the air. The heat and the +accompanying laxity breathed an atmosphere of its own; every window +of every house gaped, and behind the casements one caught visions +of men and women negligent of attire and heedless of +observation.</p> +<p>Romance was dead! Of that supreme fact Max was very sure. A hard +smile touched his lips, and hugging his cynicism, he went +forward—crossing the Boulevard de Clichy, plunging downward +into the darker regions of the rue des Martyrs and the rue +Montmartre, where the lights of the boulevards are left behind, and +the sight-seer is apt to look askance at the crude facts that the +street lamps divulge to his curious eyes. To the boy, these corners +had no terrors, for in his untarnished friendship with Blake all +sides of life had been viewed in turn, as all topics had been +discussed as component parts of a fascinatingly interesting world. +To-night he went forward, mingling with the inhabitants of the +district, revelling with morbid realism in the forbidding dinginess +of their appearance. He was not of that quarter—that was +patent to every rough who lounged outside a <i>café</i> +door, as it was patent to every slovenly woman who gave him a +glance in passing. He was not of the quarter, but he was an +artist—and a shabby one at that—so the men accorded him +an indifferent shrug and the women a second glance.</p> +<p>Forward he went, possessed by his morbidity—forward into +the growing murkiness of environment until, association of ideas +suddenly curbing impulse, he stopped before the door of a shabby +<i>café</i> bearing the fanciful appellation of the +Café des Cerises-jumelles. Once, when bound upon a night +exploration in this same region, he and Blake had stopped to smile +at this odd name and wonder at its origin, and finally they had +passed through the portal to find that the twin cherries smiled +upon doubtful patrons. The vivid memory of that night smote him now +as, drawn by some unquestioned influence, he again entered the +<i>café</i>, passing through a species of bar to a long, +low-ceiled eating-room set with small tables. How Blake had talked +that night! How thoughtfully, how humanely and tolerantly he had +judged their fellow-guests, as they sat at one of these tables, +rubbing shoulders with the worst—or, as he had laughingly +insisted, the best—of an odd fraternity!</p> +<p>The recollection was keen as a knife when Max entered the +eating-room, sat down and ordered a drink with the supreme +indifference of disillusion. Six months ago he would have trembled +to find himself alone in such a place; to-night he was beyond such +a commonplace as fear.</p> +<p>He smiled again cynically, emptied his glass and looked about +him. His first experience of the place had been in the hours +succeeding midnight, when the quarter hummed with its unsavory +life; but now it was early, the lights were not yet at their +fullest, the waiters had not as yet taken on their nocturnal air of +briskness. In one corner three men were engrossed in a game of +cards, in another a thin girl of fifteen sat with her arm round the +neck of a boy scarce older than herself, whispering jests into his +ear, at which they both laughed in coarse low murmurs, while in the +middle of the room, with her back turned to him, a woman in a tight +black dress and feathered hat was eating a meal of poached +eggs.</p> +<p>In a vague way, absorbed in his own thoughts, Max fell to +studying this solitary woman, until something in her impassivity, +something in the sphinx-like calm with which she went through the +business of her meal, blent with his imaginings, and he suddenly +found her placed beside Blake in the possession of his +thoughts—an integral part of their joint lives. In a flash of +memory the large black hat, the opulent figure took place within +his consciousness and, answering to a new instinct, he rose and +took an involuntary step in the woman's direction.</p> +<p>She changed her position at sound of his approach, her large hat +described new angles, and she looked back over her shoulder.</p> +<p>"What!" she said aloud. "The little friend of Blake! But how +droll!"</p> +<p>She showed no surprise, she merely waved her hand to a chair +facing her own.</p> +<p>Max sat down; a hot and dirty waiter came forward languidly, and +wine was ordered.</p> +<p>Lize pushed aside the glass of green-tinted liquid that she had +been consuming through a straw, and waited for what was to come. +Max, looking at her in the crude light of a gas-jet, saw that her +face was whiter, her eyes more hollow than when her wrath had +fallen on him at the Bal Tabarin; also, he noted that a little dew +of heat showed through the mask of powder on her face.</p> +<p>Silence was maintained until the wine was brought; then she +drank thirstily, laid down her empty glass and turned her eyes upon +him.</p> +<p>"You have parted with your friend, eh?"</p> +<p>The surprise of the question was so sharp that it killed +speculation. He did not ask how she had probed his +secret—whether by mere intuition or through some feminine +confidence of Jacqueline's. The fact of her knowledge swept him +beyond the region of lucid thought; he accepted the situation as it +was offered.</p> +<p>"Yes," he said. "I have parted with my friend."</p> +<p>"And why? He is a good boy—Blake!" She looked at him with +her inscrutable eyes, and after many days he was conscious of the +touch of human compassion. He did not analyze the woman's +feelings—he did not even conjecture whether she knew him for +boy or girl. All he comprehended was that out of this sordid +atmosphere—out of the lethargy of the sultry night—some +force had touched him, some force was drawing him back into the +circle of human things. Strange indeed are the workings of the +mind. He, who had shrunk with an agonized sensitiveness from the +sympathy of M. Cartel—from the tender comprehension of the +little Jacqueline—suddenly felt his reserve melt and break in +presence of this woman of the boulevards with her air of impassive +<i>ennui</i>. Theoretically, he knew life in all its harder +aspects, and it called for no vivid imagination to trace the +descent of the fresh <i>grisette</i> of the <i>Quartier Latin</i> +to the creature who sought her meals in the Café des +Cerises-jumelles, yet hers was the accepted compassion.</p> +<p>"Madame!" he said, suddenly. "Madame, tell me! You knew him +once?"</p> +<p>Lize wiped the dew of heat from her forehead; emptied a second +glass of wine. "A thousand years ago, <i>mon petit</i>, when the +world was as young as you!"</p> +<p>"In the <i>Quartier</i>?"</p> +<p>"In the <i>Quartier</i>—on the Boul' Mich'—at +Bulliers—" She stopped, falling into a dream; then, suddenly, +from the farthest corner of the room, came the sound of a loud +kiss, and the boy and girl at the distant table began to sing in +unison—a ribald song, but instinct with the zest of life. +Lize started, as though she had been struck.</p> +<p>"They have it—youth!" she cried, with a jerk of her head +toward the distant corner. "The world is for them!" Then her voice +and her expression altered. She leaned across the table, until her +face was close to Max.</p> +<p>"What a little fool you are!" she said. "It is written in those +eyes of yours—that see too little and see too much. Go home! +Think of what I have said! He is a good boy—this Blake!"</p> +<p>Max mechanically replenished her glass, and mechanically she +drank; then she produced a little mirror and made good the ravages +of the heat upon her face with the nonchalance of her kind; +finally, she looked at the clock.</p> +<p>"Come!" she said. "We go the same way."</p> +<p>He rose obediently. He made no question as to her destination. +He had come to drown himself in the sordidness of Paris and, +behold, his heart was beating with a human quickness it had not +known since the moment he held Blake's first letter unopened in his +hand; his throat was dry, his eyes were smarting with the old, +half-forgotten smart of unshed tears.</p> +<p>He followed her with a strange docility as she passed out of the +unsavory Cerises-jumelles into the close, ill-smelling street. In +complete silence they walked through what seemed a nightmare world +of unpleasant sights, unpleasant sounds, until across his dazed +thoughts the familiar sense of Paris—the sense of the +pleasure-chase—swept from the Boulevard de Clichy.</p> +<p>Lize paused; he saw her fully in the brave +illumination—the large black hat, the close-clad figure, the +pallid face—and as he looked, she smiled unexpectedly and, +putting out her hand, patted him on the shoulder.</p> +<p>"Good-bye, <i>mon enfant</i>! Go home! Youth comes but once; and +this Blake—he is a good boy!"</p> +<p>Before he could answer, before he could return smile or touch, +she was gone—absorbed into the maze of lights, and he was +alone, to turn which way he would.</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_XXXVIII'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXVIII</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">THE fifth floor was dim and silent, the door of +M. Cartel's <i>appartement</i> was closed; but Max, mounting the +stairs two steps at a time, was not daunted by silence or lack of +light. Max was once again a prey to impulse, and under the familiar +tyranny, his blood burned—raced in his veins, sang in his +cars.</div> +<p>Without an instant's pause, he knocked on M. Cartel's door, and +when his knock was answered by Jacqueline—fair and +cool-looking, oven in the great heat—words rushed from him as +they had been wont to rush when life was a gay affair.</p> +<p>"You are alone, Jacqueline?"</p> +<p>Jacqueline nodded quickly, comprehending a crisis.</p> +<p>"Ah, I thank God!" He caught both her hands; he gave a little +laugh that ended in a sob; he passed into the <i>appartement</i>, +drawing her with him.</p> +<p>"Oh, <i>la, la</i>!" she cried, hiding her emotion in flippancy, +"you take my breath away."</p> +<p>Max laughed again. "You see I've lost my own!"</p> +<p>She gave a scornful, familiar toss of the head. "Do not be +foolish! What has happened?"</p> +<p>"I have made a discovery, Jacqueline. Youth comes but once!"</p> +<p>"Indeed! You need not have left the rue Müller to learn +that."</p> +<p>"It comes but once, and while it is with me I am going to look +it in the face." His words tumbled forth, pell-mell, and as he +spoke he pulled her forcibly into the living-room.</p> +<p>"Jacqueline, I am serious. I have been down in hell; I must see +heaven, or my faith is lost."</p> +<p>Jacqueline stood very still, making no effort to loose the hot +clasp of his hands, but all at once her gaze concentrated +piercingly.</p> +<p>"You have sent for him!" she exclaimed.</p> +<p>"I have! Oh, I may be weak, but listen! listen! In the old days +when the world was religious and people observed Lent, there was +always <i>Mi-Carême</i>, was there not? Well, I have fasted, +and now I must feast."</p> +<p>They gazed at each other; the one aglow with anticipation, the +other with curiosity.</p> +<p>"You have sent for him—at last?"</p> +<p>"I have sent a telegram with these words: 'Meet me at midday on +Tuesday in the Place de la Concorde.—MAXINE.'"</p> +<p>"And this is Friday," said Jacqueline. "In four days' time you +will see him again!"</p> +<p>"Again!" Max spoke the word inaudibly.</p> +<p>"And—when you meet?" Jacqueline's blue eyes were sharp as +needle-points.</p> +<p>Max colored to the temples. "<i>Ma chérie,</i> I have not +even thought! All I know is that youth comes but once, and that +youth is courage. I have been a coward—I am going to be +brave."</p> +<p>"You are going—to confess?"</p> +<p>Max said nothing, but with her woman's instinct for such things, +Jacqueline read assent in the silence.</p> +<p>"Then the end is assured! He will take you—with your will, +or without! Monsieur Max, or the princess!"</p> +<p>Max shook his head. "I do not think so. But that is outside the +moment—that is the afterward. First there must be midday and +the Place de la Concorde! First there must be my +<i>Mi-Carême</i>—my hour!"</p> +<p>"Ah!" whispered the little Jacqueline, "your hour!" And who +shall say what memories glinted through her quick brain—what +conjurings of the first waltz with M. Cartel at the Moulin de la +Galette, and the last waltz at the Bal Tabarin, when she stepped +through the tawdry doorway into her paradise? "Your hour! And where +will it be spent—madame?"</p> +<p>"Ah!" Max's eyes sought heaven or, in lieu of heaven, M. +Cartel's ceiling; Max's hands freed Jacqueline's and flew out in +ecstatic gesture. "Ah, that is for the gods to say, +<i>chérie</i>! And the gods know best."</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_XXXIX'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXIX</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">RAPTURE gilded the world; rapture trembled on +the air like the vibrations of a chord struck from some celestial +harp. Coming as a divine gift, the first autumnal frost had lighted +upon Paris; during the night fainting August had died, and with the +dawn, golden September had been born to the city.</div> +<p>Blake, waiting at the foot of the Cours la Reine, consumed with +anticipation, drank in the freshness of the morning as though it +were a draught of wine; Maxine, crossing the Place de la Concorde, +lifted her face to the sky, striving to quiet her pulses, to cool +her hot cheeks in the wash of gentle air.</p> +<p>Her hour had arrived; none could hinder its approach, as none +could mar its beauty. She scarcely recognized the earth upon which +she trod; the fierce excitement, the melting tenderness of her +moods warred until emotion ran riot and the sifting of her feelings +became a task impossible.</p> +<p>She passed the spot where, eight months earlier, Max had saluted +the flag of France. Her heart leaped, her glance, flying before +her, discovered Blake waiting at his appointed place, and all her +wild sensations were suspended.</p> +<p>The violently beating heart seemed to stop, the blood moved with +a sick slowness in her veins, it seemed impossible that she should +go forward, and yet, by the curious mechanism of the human machine, +her feet carried her on until Blake's presence was tangible to all +her senses—until suspense was engulfed in actuality, and joy +was singing about her in the air, a song so triumphant, so +penetrating that it drowned all whispering of doubt—all +murmurs of to-morrow or of yesterday. Tears welled into her eyes, +her hands went out to him.</p> +<p>Standing in the full light, she was a tall, slight girl, +fastidiously, if simply dressed—veiled, gloved, shod as +befitted a woman of the world; and as he gazed on her, one thought +possessed Blake. She, who typified all beauty—whose presence +was a fragrance—had called to him, chosen him. All the +romance stored up through generations welled within him; he would +have died for her at that moment as enthusiastically as his +ancestors had died for their faith. Catching her hands, he kissed +them without a thought for passing glances.</p> +<p>"Princess!"</p> +<p>The sound of his voice went through her, she laughed to break +the sob that caught her throat, she looked up, unashamed of the +tears trembling on her lushes.</p> +<p>"Monsieur Ned!"</p> +<p>"Oh, why the 'monsieur'?"</p> +<p>"Why the 'princess'?"</p> +<p>They both smiled.</p> +<p>"Maxine!"</p> +<p>"<i>Mon ami! Mon cher ami</i>!" It thrilled her to the heart to +say the words; she glanced at him half fearfully, then broke forth +afresh, lest he should have time to think. "Ned, tell me! It is +true—all this? I am not asleep? It is not a dream?"</p> +<p>He pressed her hands. "Look round you! It is morning."</p> +<p>Her lips trembled; she obeyed him, looking slowly from the cool +sky to the tree-tops, where the heavy leaves were still damp with +the night's frost.</p> +<p>"Yes, it is morning!" she said. "We have all the day!"</p> +<p>Watching her intently, he did not add, as would the common +lover, "we have many days"; she seemed to him so beautiful, so +naïve that her words must compass perfection.</p> +<p>"We have all the day," he echoed. "How shall it be spent?"</p> +<p>Then she turned to him, all graciousness, her young face lifted +to the light. "Ah, you must decide! I do not wish even to think; +the world is so—how do you say—enchanted?"</p> +<p>He laughed in delight at her charming, pleading smile, her +charming, pleading hesitation; he caught her mood with swift +intuition.</p> +<p>"That's it! The world is enchanted! Away behind us, is the +Dreaming Wood. What do you say? Shall we go and seek the Sleeping +Beauty?"</p> +<p>She nodded silently. He was so perfectly the Blake of +old—the Blake who understood.</p> +<p>"Then the first thing is to find the magic coach! We must have +nothing so mundane as a carriage drawn by horses. A magic coach +that travels by itself!" He signalled to a passing automobile.</p> +<p>"Drive to the Pré Catelan—and drive slowly!" he +directed; he handed her to her seat with all the courtliness proper +to the occasion, and they were off, wheeling up the long incline +toward the Arc de Triomphe.</p> +<p>They were silent while the chauffeur made a way through the many +vehicles, past the crowds of pedestrians that infest the entrance +to the Bois; but as the way grew clearer—as the spell of the +trees, of the green vistas and glimpsed water began to weave +itself—Maxine turned and laid her hand gently upon +Blake's.</p> +<p>"<i>Mon cher</i>! How good you are!"</p> +<p>He started, thrilling at her touch.</p> +<p>"My dearest! Good?"</p> +<p>"In coming to me like this—"</p> +<p>He caught her hand quickly. "Don't!" he said. "Don't! It isn't +right—- from you to me. You never doubted that I'd come? You +knew I'd come?"</p> +<p>"Yes; I knew."</p> +<p>"Then that's all right!" He pressed her hand, he smiled, he +reassured her by all the subtle, intangible ways known to lovers, +and it was borne in upon her that he had altered, had grown +mentally in his months of exile—that he was steadier, more +certain of life or of himself, than when he had rushed +tempestuously out of Max's studio. She pondered the change, without +attempting to analyze it; a deep sense of rest possessed her, and +she allowed her hand to lie passive in his until, all too soon, +their cab swept round to the left, sped past a bank of greenery and +drew up, with a creaking of brakes, before the restaurant of the +Pré Catelan.</p> +<p>Everywhere was light, silence and, best boon of all, an +unexpected solitude—a solitude that invested the white +building with a glamour of unreality and converted the +slight-stemmed, moss-grown trees into spellbound sentinels.</p> +<p>"Here is the Castle!" said Blake. "Look! Even the waiters doze, +until we come to wake them!" He handed her to the ground, gave his +orders to the chauffeur, and as the cab disappeared into some +unseen region, they mounted the wide steps.</p> +<p>"Monsieur desires <i>déjeuner</i>?" A sleek waiter +disengaged himself from his brethren and came persuasively forward. +At this early hour everything at the Pré Catelan was soft +and soothing; later in the day things would alter, the service +would be swift and unrestful, the swish of motor-cars and the hum +of voices would break the spell, but at this hour of noon Paris, +for some obscure reason, ignored the fruitful oasis of the Bois, +and peace lay upon it like balm.</p> +<p>"How charming! Oh, but how charming!" The exclamation was won +from Maxine as her glance skimmed the palms, the glittering glasses +and the white table-linen, and rested upon the spacious windows +that convey the fascinating impression that one whole wall of the +room has been removed, and that the ranged trees outside with their +satiny green stems actually commune with the <i>gourmet</i> as he +eats his meal.</p> +<p>"It's what you wanted, isn't it?" Blake's pleasure in her +pleasure was patent. Every look, every gesture manifested it.</p> +<p>"It is wonderful!" she said, gently.</p> +<p>"Good! And now, what is the meal to be? Dragon's wings <i>en +casserole</i>? Or Moonbeams <i>surprise</i>?"</p> +<p>She laughed, and a flash of mischief stole through the glance +she gave him.</p> +<p>"What do you say, <i>mon ami</i>, to <i>poulet bonne +femme</i>?"</p> +<p>She watched for a gleam of remembrance, but he was too engrossed +in the present to recall the trivialities of the past. He gave the +order without a thought save to do her will.</p> +<p>Delay was inevitable, and while the meal was in preparation they +wandered into the open and visited the farm at the rear of the +restaurant, conjuring the farm-like traditions of the place after +the accepted custom—entering the sweet-smelling, shadowy +cow-shed, stroking the sleek, soft-breathing cows, amusing +themselves over the antics of the monkey chained beside the +door.</p> +<p>It was all very pleasant, the illusion of Arcadia was charmingly +rendered, and they returned, happy and hungry, in search of their +meal. That meal from its first morsel was raised above common +things, for was it not the first time Blake had broken bread with +Maxine? And what true lover ever forgets the rare moment when all +the joys of intimacy are foreshadowed in the first serving of his +lady with no matter what triviality of meat or bread, or water or +wine? The points of the affair are so slight and yet so tremendous; +for are they not sacramental—a typifying of things +unspeakable?</p> +<p>No intimate word was spoken, but at such times looks +speak—more poignantly still, hearts speak; and their gay +voices, as they laughed and talked and laughed again, held notes +that the ear of the waiter never caught, and their silences +vibrated with meaning.</p> +<p>At last the meal was over; they rose and by one consent looked +toward the spacious world outside.</p> +<p>"Shall we go into the gardens?"</p> +<p>Blake put the question; Maxine silently bent her head.</p> +<p>Softly and assiduously their sleek waiter bowed them to the +door, and they passed down the shallow steps into the slim shadows +of the trees as they might have passed into some paradise fashioned +for their special pleasure.</p> +<p>It was a place—an hour—removed from the mundane +world; passing out of the region of the trees, they came upon a +shrubbery—a shrubbery that enclosed a lawn and flower-beds, +and here, by grace of the gods, was a seat where they sat down side +by side and gave their eyes to the beauty that encompassed +them.</p> +<p>It was an exotic beauty, yet a beauty of intense suggestion. +Summer lay lavishly displayed in the shaven lawn, the burdened +shrubs, the glory of flowers, but over her redundant loveliness +autumn had spun an ethereal garment. No words could paint the +subtlety of this sheath; it was neither mist nor shadow, it was a +golden transparency spun from nature's loom—the bridal veil +of the young season.</p> +<p>"How exquisite!" whispered Maxine, as if a breath might break +the spell. "Look at those yellow butterflies above the flowers! +They are the only moving things."</p> +<p>"It is the place of the Sleeping Beauty, sweet! It is the place +of love." Blake took her hands again and kissed them; then, with a +gentle, enveloping tenderness, he drew her to him, looking into her +face, but not attempting to touch it.</p> +<p>"My sweet, I have come back. What are you going to do with +me?"</p> +<p>She did not answer; she lay quite still within his arms, her +half-closed eyes lingering on the garden—on the white roses, +the clustering mignonette, the hovering yellow butterflies.</p> +<p>"What are you going to do with me?"</p> +<p>She lifted her eyes, dewy with the beauty of the world.</p> +<p>"Wait!" she whispered. "Oh, wait!"</p> +<p>"I have waited."</p> +<p>"Ah, but a little longer!"</p> +<p>"But my love, my dear one—"</p> +<p>She stirred in his embrace; she turned with a swift passion of +entreaty, putting her fingers across his mouth.</p> +<p>"Ned! Ned! I know. But do this great thing for me! Shut your +eyes and your ears. Forget yesterday, think there will be no +to-morrow. Hold this one moment! Give me my one hour!"</p> +<p>She pleaded as if for life, her body vibrating, her eyes +beseeching him; and his answer was to press her hand harder against +his lips, and to kiss it fervently. He gave no sign of the struggle +within him—the doubt that encompassed him. Something had been +demanded of him, and he gave it loyally.</p> +<p>"There was no yesterday, there will be no to-morrow!" he said. +"But to-day is ours!"</p> +<p>It was the perfect word, spoken perfectly; Maxine's eyes drooped +in supreme content, her lips curled like a pleased child's.</p> +<p>"Ah, but God is good!" she said, and with a child's supreme +sweetness, she lifted her face for his kiss.</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_XL'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XL</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">THE hour was sped, the day past; night, with its +dark wings, covered the eastern sky and, one by one, the stars came +forth—stars that gleamed like new silver in the light +sharpness of the September air.</div> +<p>Having closed eyes to the world at the Pré Catelan, +Maxine and Blake had lengthened the coil of their dream as the day +waxed. Three o'clock had seen them driving into the heart of the +Bois, and late afternoon had found them wandering under the formal, +interlaced trees in the gardens of the Petit Trianon. At Versailles +they dined, falling a little silent over their meal, for neither +could longer hold at bay the sense that events impended—that +all paths, however devious, however touched by the enchanter's +wand, lead back by an unalterable law to the world of +realities.</p> +<p>With an unspoken anxiety they clung to the last moment of their +meal; and when coffee had been partaken of, Maxine demanded yet +another cup and, resting her elbows on the table, took her face +between her hands.</p> +<p>"Ned! Will you not offer me a cigarette?"</p> +<p>He was all confusion at seeming remiss.</p> +<p>"My dear one! A thousand pardons! I did not think—"</p> +<p>"—That I smoked? Are you disappointed?"</p> +<p>He smiled. "It is one charm the more—if there is room for +one."</p> +<p>He handed her a cigarette and lighted a match, his eyes resting +upon her as she drew in the first breath of smoke with a quaint +seriousness that smote him with a thought of the boy.</p> +<p>"Dearest," he said, suddenly, "I have been so happy to-day that +I have thought of no one but ourselves, and now, all at +once—"</p> +<p>Her eyes flashed up to his; she divined his thought, and it was +as though she put forth all her strength to ward off a physical +danger.</p> +<p>"Oh, <i>mon cher</i>, and was it not your day—our day? +Would you have marred it with other thoughts?"</p> +<p>"No; but yet—"</p> +<p>"No! No!" She put out her hand, she pleaded with eyes and lips +and voice. "Look! Until this little cigarette is burned out!" She +held up the glowing tip. "When that is over, our day is over; then +we return to the world—but not until then. Is it—what +do you say—a bargain?" Her white teeth flashed, her glance +flashed with the brightness of tears, her fingers rested for a +second upon his.</p> +<p>The restaurant was practically empty; a few summer tourists were +dining at tables close to the door, but Blake had chosen the +farthest, dimmest corner and there they sat in semi-isolation, +living the last moments of their day with an intensity that neither +dared to express and that each was conscious of with every beat of +the heart.</p> +<p>Maxine laughed as she drew her second puff of smoke, but her +laugh had a nervous thinness. Blake filled their liqueur-glasses, +but his gesture was uneven and a little of the brandy spilled upon +the cloth.</p> +<p>"A libation to the gods!" he said. "May they smile upon us!" He +lifted his glass and emptied it.</p> +<p>Maxine forced a smile. "The gods know best!" she said, but as +she raised her glass, her hand, also, trembled.</p> +<p>But Blake ignored her perturbation, as she ignored his. The +coming ordeal lay stark across their path, but neither would look +upon it, neither would see beyond the tip of Maxine's +cigarette—the tiny beacon, consuming even as it gave +light!</p> +<p>A silence fell—a silence of full five minutes—then +Blake, yielding once more to the craving for the solace of contact, +put his hand over hers.</p> +<p>"Dear one, I know nothing of what is coming, but that I am +utterly in your hands. But let me say one thing. To-day has been +heaven—the golden, the seventh heaven!"</p> +<p>She said nothing, she did not meet his eyes, but her cold +fingers clasped his convulsively, and two tears fell hot upon their +hands.</p> +<p>That was all; that was the sum of their expression. No other +word was spoken. They sat silent, watching the cigarette burn +itself out between Maxine's fingers.</p> +<p>She held it to the very last, then dropped it into her +finger-bowl and rose.</p> +<p>"Now, <i>mon cher</i>!" In the dim light she looked very tall +and slight and seemed possessed of a curious dignity. All the +animation had left her face, beneath the eyes were shadows, and in +the eyes a tragic sadness—the sadness that the soul creates +for itself.</p> +<p>Blake rose also and, side by side, very quietly, they left the +restaurant. In the street outside, the cab that had assisted in the +day's adventures still waited their pleasure.</p> +<p>He handed her to her place and paused, his foot upon the +step.</p> +<p>"And now, liege lady—where?"</p> +<p>She looked at him gravely and answered without a tremor, "To +Max's studio."</p> +<p>Surprise—if surprise touched him—showed not at all +upon his face. He gave the order quietly and explicitly, and took +his place beside her.</p> +<p>Down the broad street of Versailles they wheeled, but both were +too preoccupied to see the lurking ghosts of a past +<i>régime</i> that lie so palpably in the shadows, and +presently Blake's hand found hers once more.</p> +<p>"You are cold?"</p> +<p>She shook her head.</p> +<p>Through the cool night they drove, under the jewelled cloak of +the sky, rushing forward toward Paris as Max had once rushed in the +mysterious north express.</p> +<p>Blake did not speak or move again until the city was close about +them; then, with a gesture that startled her by its unexpectedness, +he drew from his hand the signet ring he always wore—a ring +familiar to Max as the stones of the rue Müller—and +slipped it over her third finger.</p> +<p>"Oh, Ned!" She started as the ring slipped into place, and her +voice trembled with fear and superstition.</p> +<p>He pressed her hand. "Don't refuse it! The ring is the emblem of +the eternal, and all my thoughts for you belong to eternity."</p> +<p>No more was said; they skimmed through the familiar ways until +Maxine could have cried aloud for grace, and at last they stopped +at the corner of the rue André de Sarte.</p> +<p>She stood aside as Blake dismissed the cab, she knew that had +speech been demanded of her then she could not have brought forth a +word, so parched were her lips, so impotent her tongue.</p> +<p>Her ordeal confronted her; no human power could eliminate it +now. To her was the disentangling of knotted threads, the sorting +of the colors in the scheme of things. She averted her face from +Blake as they mounted the Escalier de Sainte-Marie, and her hand +clung for support to the iron railing.</p> +<p>Familiar to the point of agony was the open doorway, the dark +hall of the house in the rue Müller. Side by side they +entered; side by side, and in complete silence, they made the +ascent of the stairs, each step of which was heavy with +memories.</p> +<p>On the fifth floor she went forward and opened the door of Max's +<i>appartement</i>. Within, all was dark and quiet, and Blake, +loyally following her, passed without comment through the tiny +hall, on into the little <i>salon</i> where the light from the +brilliant sky made visible the pathetically familiar +objects—the old copper vessels, the dower chest, the leathern +arm-chair.</p> +<p>This leather chair stood like a faithful sentinel close to the +open window, and as his eyes rested on it he was conscious of a +pained contraction of the heart, for it stood exactly where it had +stood when last he watched the stars and rambled through his dreams +and ideals, with the boy for listener. The thought came quick and +sharp, goading him as many a puzzled thought had goaded him in his +months of solitude, and as at Versailles, he turned to Maxine, a +question on his lips.</p> +<p>But again she checked that question. Stepping through the +shadows, she drew him across the room toward the window. Reaching +the old chair, she touched his shoulder, gently compelling him to +sit down.</p> +<p>"Ned," she said, and to her own ears the word sounded infinitely +far away. "I seem to you very mad. But you have a great patience. +Will you be patient a little longer?"</p> +<p>She had withdrawn behind the chair, laying both her hands upon +his shoulders, and as she spoke her voice shook in an unconquerable +nervousness, her whole body shook.</p> +<p>"My sweet!" He turned quickly and looked up at her. "What is all +this? Why are you torturing yourself? For God's sake, let us be +frank with each other—"</p> +<p>But she pressed his shoulders convulsively. "Wait! wait! It is +only a little moment now. I implore you to wait!"</p> +<p>He sank back, and as in a dream felt her fingers release their +hold and heard her move gently back across the room; then, +overwhelmed by the burden of dread that oppressed him, he leaned +forward, bowing his face upon his hands.</p> +<p>Minutes passed—how few, how many, he made no attempt to +reckon—then again the hushed steps sounded behind him, the +sense of a gracious presence made itself felt.</p> +<p>Instinctively he attempted to rise, but, as before, Maxine's +hands were laid upon his shoulders, pressing him back into his +seat. He saw her hands in the starlight—saw the glint of his +own ring.</p> +<p>"Ned!"</p> +<p>"Dear one?"</p> +<p>"It is dim, here in this room, but you know me? Your soul sees +me?" Her voice was shaking, her words sobbed like notes upon an +instrument strung to breaking pitch.</p> +<p>"My dear one! My dear one!" His voice, too, was sharp and +pained; he strove to turn in his chair, but she restrained him.</p> +<p>"No! No! Say it without looking. You know me? I am Maxine?"</p> +<p>"Of course you are Maxine!"</p> +<p>"Ah!"</p> +<p>It was a short, swift sound like the sobbing breath of a spent +runner. It spoke a thousand things, and with its vibrations +trembling upon her lips, Maxine came round the chair and Blake, +looking up, saw Max—Max of old, Max of the careless clothes, +the clipped waving locks.</p> +<p>It is in moments grotesque or supreme that men show themselves. +He sprang to his feet; he stared at the apparition until his eyes +grew wide, but all he said was 'God!' very softly to himself. +'God!' And then again, 'God!'</p> +<p>It was Maxine who opened the flood-gates of emotion; Maxine who, +with wild gesture and broken voice, dressed the situation in +words.</p> +<p>"Now it is over! Now it is finished—the whole foolish +play! Now you have your sight—and your liberty to hate me! +Hate me! Hate me! I am waiting."</p> +<p>"God!" whispered Blake again, not hearing her, piecing his +thoughts together as a waking man tries to piece a dream. +'God!'</p> +<p>The reiteration tortured her. She suddenly caught his arm, +forcing him into contact with her. "Do not speak to yourself!" she +cried. "Speak to me! Say all you think! Hate me! Hate me!"</p> +<p>Then at last he broke through the confusion of his mind, +startling her as such men will always startle women by their innate +singleness of thought.</p> +<p>"Hate you?" he said. "Why, in God's name, should I hate +you?"</p> +<p>"Because it is right and just."</p> +<p>"That I should hate you, because I have been a fool? I do not +see that."</p> +<p>"But, Ned!" she cried; then, suddenly, at its sharpest, her +voice broke; she threw herself upon her knees beside the chair and +sobbed.</p> +<p>And then it was that Blake showed himself. Kneeling down beside +her, he put both arms about the boyish figure and, holding it +close, poured forth—not questions, not reproaches, not +protestations—but a stream of compassion.</p> +<p>"Poor child! Poor child! Poor child! What a fool I've been! What +a brute I've been!"</p> +<p>But Maxine sobbed passionately, shrinking away from him, as +though his touch were pain.</p> +<p>"My child! My child! How foolish I have been! But how foolish +you have been, too—how sweetly foolish! You gave with one +hand and took away with the other. But now it is all over. Now you +are going to give with both hands—- I am to have my friend +and my love as well. It is very wonderful. Oh, sweet, don't fret! +Don't fret! See how simple it all is!"</p> +<p>But Maxine's bitter crying went on, until at last it frightened +him.</p> +<p>"Maxine, don't! Don't, for God's sake! Why should you cry like +this? What is it, when all's said and done, but a point of view? +And a point of view is adjusted much more quickly than you think. +At first I thought the earth was reeling round me, but now I know +that 'twas only my own brain that reeled; and I know, too, that +subconsciously I must always have recognized you in Max—for I +never treated Max as a common boy, did I? Did I, now? I always had +a queer—a queer respect for him. Dear one, see it with me! +Try to see it with me?"</p> +<p>His appeal was pathetic; it was he who was the culprit—he +who extenuated and pleaded. The position struck Maxine, wounding +her like a knife.</p> +<p>"Oh, don't!" she cried in her own turn. "Don't, for the sake of +God!"</p> +<p>"But why? Why? My sweet! My love! My little friend! +Max—Maxine!"</p> +<p>It was not to be borne. She wrenched herself free and sprang to +her feet, confronting him with a pale face down which the tears +streamed.</p> +<p>"Because I am not your love! I am not your friend! I am not your +Max—or your Maxine!"</p> +<p>Swift as she, he was on his feet, his bearing changed, his +manhood recognizing the challenge in her voice, his instinct of +possession alive to combat it.</p> +<p>"Not mine?" he said; and to Maxine, standing white and frail +before him, the words seemed to have all the significance of life +itself. Now at last they confronted each other—man and woman; +now at last the issue in the war of sex was to be put to the +test.</p> +<p>She had always known that this moment would arrive—always +known that she would meet it in some such manner as she was meeting +it now.</p> +<p>"Not mine?" Blake said again.</p> +<p>She shook her head, throwing back her shoulders, clasping her +hands behind her, unconsciously taking on the attitude of +defiance.</p> +<p>"And why not?"</p> +<p>It was curt, this question, as man's vital questions ever are; +it was an onslaught that clove to the heart of things.</p> +<p>She trembled for an instant, then met his eyes.</p> +<p>"Because I will belong to no one. I must possess myself."</p> +<p>He stared at her.</p> +<p>"But it is not given to any one to possess himself! How can you +separate an atom from the universal mass?"</p> +<p>"An atom may detach itself—"</p> +<p>"And fall into space! Is that self-possession? But, my God, are +we going to split hairs? Maxine! Maxine!" He came close to her and +put out his arms, but with a fierce gesture she evaded him; then, +as swiftly, caught his hand.</p> +<p>"Oh, Ned! Oh, Ned! Can't you see?"</p> +<p>"No!" said Blake, simply. "I cannot."</p> +<p>"Listen! Then listen! I know myself for an individual—for +a definite entity; I know that here—here, within +me"—she struck her breast—"I have power—power to +think—power to achieve. And how do you think that power is to +be developed?" She paused, looking at him with burning eyes. "Not +by the giving of my soul into bondage—not by the submerging +of myself in another being. That night in Petersburg I saw my +way—the hard way, the lonely way! Oh, Ned!" She stopped +again, searching his face, but his face was pale and +immobile—curiously, unnaturally immobile.</p> +<p>With a passionate gesture, she flung his hand from her. "Oh, it +is so cruel! Can't you see? Can't you understand? I left Russia to +make a new life; I made myself a man, not for a whim, but as a +symbol. Sex is only an accident, but the world has made man the +independent creature—and I desired independence. Sex is only +an accident. Mentally, I am as good a man as you are."</p> +<p>"Ten times a better man," said Blake, startingly. "But not near +so good a woman. For I know the highest thing—and you do +not."</p> +<p>"The highest thing?"</p> +<p>"Love."</p> +<p>"Ah!" She threw up her hands in despair and walked to the +window, looking up blankly at the stars. Then, suddenly, she spoke +again, tossing her words back into the room.</p> +<p>"I suppose you think I am happy in all this?"</p> +<p>He was silent.</p> +<p>"I suppose you think I find this heaven?"</p> +<p>At last he answered. He came across to her; he stood looking at +her with his strange new expression of inscrutability.</p> +<p>"Oh, Maxine!" he said, "why must you misjudge me? Little Maxine, +who could be taken in my arms this minute and carried away to my +castle, like a princess of long ago—but who would break her +heart over the bondage! I haven't much, dear one, to justify my +existence—but the gods have given me intuition. I do not +think you are in heaven."</p> +<p>He waited a moment, while in the sky above them the stars looked +down impartially upon the white domes of the church and the beacons +of pleasure in the city below.</p> +<p>"Maxine! Shall I say the things for you that you want to +say?"</p> +<p>She bent her head.</p> +<p>"Well, first of all, God help us, the world is a terrible +tangle; and then you have a strange soul that has never yet half +revealed itself. You sent me away from you because you feared love; +you called me back because you feared your fear—"</p> +<p>"No! No! You are reasoning now, not justifying! You are +entrapping me!"</p> +<p>"Am I?"</p> +<p>"Yes, and I refuse to be entrapped! I know love—I know all +the specious things that love can say; the talk of independence, +the talk of equality! But I know the reality, too. The reality is +the absolute annihilation of the woman—the absolute merging +of her identity."</p> +<p>"So that is love?"</p> +<p>"That is love."</p> +<p>He stood looking at her with a long profound look of deep +restraint, of great sadness.</p> +<p>"Maxine," he said, at last, "you have many gifts—a high +intelligence, a young body, a strong soul, but in the matter of +love you are a little child. To you, love is barter and exchange; +but love is not that. Love is nothing but a giving—an +exhaustless giving of one's very best."</p> +<p>She tried to laugh. "I understand! I should give!"</p> +<p>"No, sweet, you should not. You cannot know the privileges of +love, for you do not know love."</p> +<p>"Oh, Ned! How cruel! How cruel!"</p> +<p>"You do not know love," he spoke, very gently, without any +bitterness, "and I do know it; for it has grown in me, day by day, +in these long months away from you. I am not to be praised, any +more than you are to be blamed. But I do love you—with my +heart and my soul—with my life and my strength. I would die +for you, if dying would help you; and as it won't, I will do the +harder thing—live for you."</p> +<p>Her lips were parted, but they uttered no sound; her eyes, dark +with thought, searched his face.</p> +<p>"Oh, Maxine!" He caught her hand. "How low you have rated +me—to think I would wrest you from yourself! Is it my place +to make life harder for you?"</p> +<p>Still she gazed at him. "I do not understand," she said, in a +frightened whisper.</p> +<p>"Never mind, sweet! It doesn't matter if you never understand. +Just give me credit for one saving grace."</p> +<p>He spoke lightly, as men speak when they are bankrupt of hope, +then with a sudden breaking of his stoicism, he caught her in his +arms, straining her close, kissing her mouth, talking incoherently +to himself.</p> +<p>"Oh, Maxine! Little faun of the green groves! If you could know! +But what am I that I should possess the kingdom of heaven?"</p> +<p>His ecstasy frightened her; she struggled to free herself.</p> +<p>"What is it?" she asked. "What is it?"</p> +<p>"Just love—no more, no less! Good-bye! Take your +life—make it what you will; but know always that one man at +least has seen heaven in your eyes." Again he held her to him, his +whole life seeming to flow out upon his thoughts and to envelop +her, then his arms relaxed and very soberly he took, first one of +her hands, and then the other, kissing each in turn.</p> +<p>"Maxine!"</p> +<p>"Ned!" The word faltered on her lips.</p> +<p>"That's right!" he whispered. "I only wanted you to say my name. +Good-bye now! Don't fret for me! After all, everything is as it +should be."</p> +<p>She stood before him, the conqueror. All preconceptions had been +scattered; she had not even won her laurels, they had been placed +at her feet; and all the pomp and circumstance she could summon to +her triumphing was a white face, a drooping head, and speechless +lips.</p> +<p>"Good-bye, Maxine!" The words cried for response, and by a +supreme effort she summoned her voice from some far region.</p> +<p>"Good-bye!"</p> +<p>He did not kiss her hand again, but bending his head, he +solemnly kissed his own ring, lying cold upon her finger.</p> +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<br> +<br> +<a name='CHAPTER_XLI'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XLI</h2> +<br> +<div class="first">ALL was finished. Mystery was at an end. The +pilgrim's staff had been placed in Maxine's hand, her feet set +toward the great white road. She leaned back against the window of +the <i>salon</i> and her mental eyes scanned that road—the +coveted road of freedom, the way of splendid isolation—and in +a vague, dumb fashion she wondered why the whiteness that had +gleamed like snow in the distance should take on the hue of dust +seen at close quarters. She wondered why she should feel so +absolutely numbed—why life, with its exuberances of joy and +sorrow, should suddenly have receded from her as a tide +recedes.</div> +<p>There had been no battle; hers was a bloodless victory. Fate had +been exquisitely kind, as is Fate's way when she would be ironical. +Maxine could call up no cause for grief or for resentment, no cause +even for remorse. She had confessed herself; she had been shriven +and blessed, and bade to go her way!</p> +<p>Passing in review these phantom speculations, her eyes suddenly +refused the vision of the mythical white road, stretching away in +brain-sickening length, and her physical sight caught at the +familiar picture revealed by the balcony—the thrice-known, +thrice-loved shrubbery, where already the glossy holly leaves were +stirring under September's fingers, whispering one to the other of +fine cold autumn hours when gales would sweep the heights, bringing +death to their frailer brethren, while they themselves nestled snug +and strong, laughing at the elements. She traced the familiar +outline of these sturdy bushes, and her perfect triumph seemed like +a winding sheet about her limbs. She was above the world, removed +from care, and all she knew was that she would have given her heart +for one moment of the hot human grief that had seared her not four +months ago.</p> +<p>She turned from the trees, turned from the stars and moved back +into the unlighted room. All was quiet and dim; she stumbled +against the arm-chair and recoiled as though a friend had touched +her inopportunely; then she passed blindly onward, finding the +little hall, finding the outer door with groping hands.</p> +<p>Outside was a deeper darkness, for here no starlight penetrated; +but M. Cartel's door was ajar, and through the opening came a +streak of lamplight and the hum of voices.</p> +<p>Pausing, Maxine caught the deep, humorous tones of M. Cartel +himself, broken first by an unknown voice, quick, tense, typically +Parisian, then by the light laugh of Jacqueline.</p> +<p>In her cruel perfection of triumph, she had no need to fear +these voices—these little evidences of sociability. They +could not hurt her, for was she not impervious to pain?</p> +<p>Another laugh, full and contented, came to her ear, then the +opening of the piano and the masterful striking of a chord.</p> +<p>A murmur of pleasure gave evidence of an audience, and +instinctively she moved forward, as a wanderer on a dark night +draws near to a lighted dwelling. Gaining the door, she softly +pushed it open, as M. Cartel executed a <i>roulade</i>, which +melted into a brilliant piece of improvization.</p> +<p>A bright lamp shone in the hall; but beyond, the open door of +the living-room displayed a half-lighted interior, with a handful +of people grouped about it. Foremost figure was M. Cartel seated at +his music within a radius of yellow light shed by four candles, +while, beside him, a tall thin boy, and, behind him, Jacqueline +seemed enclosed in a secondary, fainter circle of luminance. The +rest of the room was in shadow, and as Maxine entered, she scarcely +noticed the three other occupants—two men and a +woman—who sat in a row close to the door, their backs to the +wall.</p> +<p>No one commented upon her entry. The little Jacqueline glanced +round once, smiling a quick welcome, but returned immediately to +her contemplation of M. Cartel; the younger of the two men by the +door—an Italian—paused in the lighting of a cigarette, +but his companion—an old Polish Jew with a classic head and +long, gray beard—retained his attitude of rapt attention, +while the woman, who sat a little apart, and whose large black hat +hid her face, made no sign.</p> +<p>Treading softly, Maxine entered and crept into a seat opposite +the trio, realizing, with an indifference that surprised her, that +the woman was Lize of the Bal Tabarin and the Café des +Cerises-jumelles.</p> +<p>The music poured forth, a glittering stream of sound. The young +Italian lighted cigarette after cigarette, smoking furiously and +beating soundless time upon the floor with his foot, the old Pole +sat lost in an emotional dream, tears gathering slowly in his eyes +and trickling unheeded down his cheeks, while Lize, in her moveless +isolation, gazed with fixed intensity at the wall above Maxine's +head.</p> +<p>Time passed; time seemed of small account in that +atmosphere—as the outside world was of small account. Not one +of the little audience questioned how the other lived. It mattered +nothing that in other hours the artistic fingers of the young +Italian were employed in the manufacture of fraudulent +antiques—that the enthusiast by the piano wrote humorous +songs at a starvation wage for an unsuccessful +<i>comique</i>—that Lize, finding humanity foolish, made +profit of its folly! 'What would you?' they would have asked with a +shrug. 'One must live!' For the rest, there were moments such as +this—moments when the artist was paramount in each of +them—when pure enthusiasm made them children again!</p> +<p>M. Cartel played on. He had forsaken improvization now, and was +interpreting magnificently; occasionally the boy by the piano threw +up his hands ecstatically, muttering incoherently to himself; +occasionally the young Italian broke silence by a sharp, +irresistible '<i>Brava</i>'; but for the most part respectful +silence spoke the intensity of the spell.</p> +<p>Then at last Maxine, sitting in her corner, saw Jacqueline bend +over the shoulder of M. Cartel, her hair shining like sun-rays in +the candlelight—saw her whisper in his ear—saw him look +up and nod in abrupt acquiescence, and saw his square-tipped +fingers lift for an instant from the keys and descend again to a +series of new chords.</p> +<p>A little murmur of interest passed over the listeners. The +Italian threw away his half-smoked cigarette and lighted another, +the Pole smiled tolerantly with half-closed eyes, as the old smile +at the vagaries of the young, and Maxine in her shadowed seat felt +her heart leap tumultuously as the little Jacqueline, her arm +naïvely round the shoulder of M. Cartel, her head thrown back, +began to sing the first lines of the duet in <i>Louise</i>:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'><span>'Depuis le jour où je me suis +donnée, toute fleurie semble ma destinée.<br></span> +<span>Je crois rêver sous un ciel de féerie, +l'âme encore grisée de ton premier +baiser!'<br></span></div> +</div> +<p>And M. Cartel, lifting his head, broke in with the single +electric cry of Julian the lover:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'><span>'Louise!'<br></span></div> +</div> +<p>Then, as if answering to the personal note, Jacqueline melted +into Louise's sweet admission of absolute surrender:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'><span>'Quelle belle vie!<br></span> <span>Ah, +je suis heureuse! trop heureuse ... et je tremble +délicieusement,<br></span> <span>Au souvenir charmant du +premier jour d'amour!'<br></span></div> +</div> +<p>The effect was instant. The youth by the piano smiled radiantly +and nodded in vehement approval; the young Italian puffed fiercely +at his cigarette; a flash of light crossed Lize's gaze, causing it +to concentrate.</p> +<p>Jacqueline had no extraordinary voice, but music was native to +her, and she sang as birds sing, with a true light sweetness +exquisite to the ear:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'><span>'Souvenir charmant du premier jour +d'amour!'<br></span></div> +</div> +<p>The declaration came to the listeners with a pure sincerity, it +abounded in simplicity, in youthfulness, in conviction. A quiver +ran through Maxine, her numbed senses vibrated. By an acute +intuition she realized the composer's meaning; more, she +appreciated the thrill called up in the soul of M. Cartel. Her ears +were strained to catch each note, each phrase, with an intentness +that astonished her; it suddenly appeared that out of all the +world, one thing alone was of significance—the close +following of this song, the apprehending of its purpose.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'><span>'Souvenir charmant du premier jour +d'amour!'<br></span></div> +</div> +<p>The first night with Blake upon the balcony sprang back to +memory, and with it the wonder, the delight, the illimitable sense +of kinship with the universe. Again the spiritual sense lived in +her, not warring with the physical, but justifying, completing it. +She sat upright against the wall, suddenly fearful of this +overwhelming mental disturbance—fighting the cloud of memory +almost as one fights a bodily faintness.</p> +<p>The music grew in meaning; she heard Julian's ardent +question:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'><span>'Tu ne regrette rien?'<br></span></div> +</div> +<p>and Louise's triumphant answer:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'><span>'Rien!'<br></span></div> +</div> +<p>The words, simply human, divinely just, assailed her ears, and +by light of the intuition—the superconsciousness that was +dominating her—the whole truth of this confessed love poured +in upon her soul. She saw the halo about the head of the little +singer, she appreciated the sublime giving of herself that cried in +the music of the song. It was no mere sentiment on the lips of this +fair child, it was the proclamation of a tremendous fact.</p> +<p>She leaned back against the wall, lips set, hands clasped. She +clung to the rock of her theories like a drowning man, and like the +drowning man she realized the imminence of the inundation that +threatened her.</p> +<p>The music swelled, and now it was not Jacqueline alone who sang; +M. Cartel's voice rose, completing, perfecting the higher feminine +notes, blending with them as the music of wind or running water +might harmonize with the singing of a bird. It was not art but +nature that was at work in the words:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class="stanza"><span>'Nous sommes tous les amants, +fidèles a leur serment! Ah, le divin roman!<br></span></div> +<div class="stanza"><span>Nous sommes toutes les âmes que +brûle le sainte flamme du désire!<br></span> +<span class='i2'>Ah, la parole idéale dont s'enivre mon +corps tout entier!<br></span> <span class='i2'>Dis encore ta +chanson de délice! Ta chanson victorieuse, ta chanson de +printemps!'<br></span></div> +</div> +<p>The duet wore on, enthralling in its closeness to common human +life, with its touches of tears, its touches of laughter, its hints +of tenderness and bursts of passion. Not one face but had softened +in comprehension as Louise painted the picture of her home—of +the gentle father, the scolding mother, the little daily frictions +that wear patience thin; not one heart but had leaped when passion +broke a way through the song, mounting, mounting as upon wings, +until Louise in her ecstasy of love and joy and incredulity +exclaims:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'><span>'C'est le paradis! C'est une +féerie!'<br></span></div> +</div> +<p>And Julian answers:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'><span>'Non! C'est la vie! l'Eternelle, la toute +puissante vie!'<br></span></div> +</div> +<p>It was the supreme, the psychological moment! The duet +continued, but Maxine heard no further words. They echoed and +re-echoed in her brain, they obsessed her, lifting her to a +sublimal state.</p> +<p>Across the room she saw the Italian throw away his cigarette and +forget to replace it; she saw Lize lean forward breathlessly, and +she knew that in fancy she was back in the Quartier Latin when life +was young—when love laughed, and her hair was wreathed with +vine leaves. She saw her at last as a living woman—felt the +grape-juice run down her neck—felt the kisses of the Jacque +Aujet who was ten years dead!</p> +<p>This, then, was the sum of life! Not the holding of fair things, +but the giving of them!</p> +<p>She rose up; her limbs shook, but she paid no heed to physical +strength or weakness; she was on a plane where the soul moved free, +regardless of mortal needs. Neither Max nor Maxine had any place in +her conceptions. She saw Lize, broken but justified, because she +had given when life asked of her; she saw the little Jacqueline, +with the halo of candle-light turning her blonde hair to gold; in a +distant dream she saw the frail, steadfast Madame Salas, and in a +near, poignant vision she saw Blake, and her soul melted within +her.</p> +<p>She conceived the world as one immense censer into which men and +women poured their all, and from which a wondrous white smoke, a +scent incredibly lovely, rose continually, enveloping the +universe.</p> +<p>To give! To give without hope of recompense, without question, +without fear! That was the message of life.</p> +<p>She looked round the little room; she yearned to put out her +arms, to clasp each hand, to touch each forehead with the kiss of +living fellowship. Love consumed her, humility rilled her, she was +a child again, with all things to learn.</p> +<p>The music was reaching its climax, it was filling every corner +of the room, and as she glanced toward the piano in a last long +look, the two voices rose in unison.</p> +<p>Silently—none knowing the revolution within her +soul—none seeing the heights upon which she +walked—Maxine moved to the door and slipped out into the +hall, the picture of the lovers before her eyes, in her ears the +symbolic cry:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'><span>'C'est la vie! l'Eternelle, la toute +puissante vie!'<br></span></div> +</div> +<p>Like a being inspired, she passed back into her own +<i>appartement</i>, and there, with a strange high excitement that +was yet mystically calm, entered her little bedroom and lighted +candles until not a shadow was left in all the white circumscribed +space; then, standing in the illumination, like an acolyte who +ministers to some secret rite, she slowly unburdened herself of her +boy's garments.</p> +<p>The task was brief; they fell from her lightly, leaving her fair +and virginal and untrammelled in body, as she was virginal and +untrammelled in mind; and with a sweet gravity she clothed herself, +garment by garment, in the dress of the morning.</p> +<p>Ardent and eager—yet restrained, as befitted a woman aware +of her high place—she left the room and passed down the +Escalier de Sainte-Marie. A rush of cool air came to her across the +plantation, kissing her hot cheeks, the holly bushes whispered +their secrets—which were her secrets as well, the eyes of the +stars looked down, smiling into her eyes. She observed no face in +the thronging faces that passed her; she made her steadfast way to +the one point in the universe that was her goal by right divine. +Even in the hallway of Blake's house she did not stop to question, +but mounted the stairs and knocked upon his door, regardless of the +stormy beating of her heart, the faintness of anticipation that +encompassed her.</p> +<p>A moment passed—a moment or a century; then he was before +her, appealing to the innermost recesses of her being.</p> +<p>He stared at her, as one might stare upon a ghost.</p> +<p>"Maxine!"</p> +<p>Her lips parted, trembling with a pleading tenderness.</p> +<p>"Maxine!" he said again; and now his voice shook, as hers had +shaken in Max's little starlit studio.</p> +<p>It was the cry she had waited for—the confirmation of her +faith. Her hands went out to him; her soul suddenly poured forth +allegiance in look and voice.</p> +<p>"Ned! Ned! Take me! Take me and teach me! Take me away to your +castle, like the princess of old. Show me the white sky and the +opal sea, and the seaweed that smells like violets!"</p> +<p>His hands clasped hers, his incredulous eyes besought her. +"Maxine, this is some dream?"</p> +<p>"No; it is no dream. We are awake. It is life!"</p> +<br> +<p>THE END</p> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14054 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/14054-h/images/front.jpg b/14054-h/images/front.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..cc93451 --- /dev/null +++ b/14054-h/images/front.jpg diff --git a/14054-h/images/ill004.jpg b/14054-h/images/ill004.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..5da5bab --- /dev/null +++ b/14054-h/images/ill004.jpg diff --git a/14054-h/images/ill044.jpg b/14054-h/images/ill044.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..5c4492c --- /dev/null +++ b/14054-h/images/ill044.jpg diff --git a/14054-h/images/ill062.jpg b/14054-h/images/ill062.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..e36046d --- /dev/null +++ b/14054-h/images/ill062.jpg diff --git a/14054-h/images/ill126.jpg b/14054-h/images/ill126.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..debe97e --- /dev/null +++ b/14054-h/images/ill126.jpg diff --git a/14054-h/images/ill154.jpg b/14054-h/images/ill154.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..8597d31 --- /dev/null +++ b/14054-h/images/ill154.jpg diff --git a/14054-h/images/ill186.jpg b/14054-h/images/ill186.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..2b71daf --- /dev/null +++ b/14054-h/images/ill186.jpg diff --git a/14054-h/images/ill226.jpg b/14054-h/images/ill226.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..84e6b79 --- /dev/null +++ b/14054-h/images/ill226.jpg |
