CHAPTER VII
It trembled and hung upon the air--that brief word "fame"--as it has sooften hung and trembled in the streets and in the _cafes_ of Paris,winged with the exuberance of youth, the faith in his mystic star thatabides in the heart of the artist. In that moment of confession theindividuality of the boy was submerged in his ambition; he belonged tono country, to no sex. He was inspiration made manifest--the flamefanned into being by the winds of the universe, blown as those windslisted.
The Irishman looked into his burning face, and a curious unnamablefeeling thrilled him--a sense of enthusiasm, of profound sadness, ofpoignant envy.
"You're not only seeking the greatest thing in the world," he said,slowly, "but the cruellest. Failure may be cruel, but success iscrueller still. The gods are usurers, you know; they lend to mortals,but they exact a desperate interest."
The boy's hand, still lying unconsciously in his, trembled again.
"I know that; but it does not frighten me."
"A challenge? Take care! The gods are always listening."
"I know that. I am not afraid."
"So be it, then! I'll watch the duel. But what road do youfollow--music? literature? Art of some sort, of course; you are artistall over."
Again the fire leaped to the boy's eyes. He snatched his hand away inquick excitement.
"Look! I will show you!"
With the swiftness of lightning he whipped a pencil from his pocket,pushed aside his coffee-cup, and began to draw upon the marble-toppedtable as though his life depended upon his speed.
For ten minutes he worked feverishly, his face intensely earnest, hishead bent over his task, a lock of dark hair drooping across hisforehead; then he looked up, throwing himself back in his chair andgazing up at his companion with the egotistical triumph--the intense,childish satisfaction of the artist in the first flush of accomplishedwork.
"Look! Look, now, at this!"
The Irishman laughed sympathetically; the artist, as belonging to a raceapart, was known by him and liked, but he rose and came round the tablewith a certain scepticism. Life had taught him that temperament andoutput are different things.
He leaned over the boy's chair; then suddenly he laid his hand on hisshoulder and gripped it, his own face lighting up.
"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 coulddo it?"
The boy laughed in sheer delight and, bending over the table, added alingering touch or two to his work--a rough expressive sketch of himselfstanding back from an easel, a palette in his left hand, a brush in hisright, his hair unkempt, his whole attitude comically suggestive of anartist in a moment of delirious oblivion. It was the curt, abruptexpression of a mood, but there was cleverness, distinction, humor inevery line.
"Boy, this is fine! Fine! That duel will be fought, take my word forit. But, look here, we must toast this first attempt! Madame! Madame!"He literally shouted the words, and madame came flying out.
"Madame, have you a liqueur brandy--very old? I have discovered thatthis is a _fete_ day."
"But certainly, monsieur! A _cognac_ of the finest excellence."
"Out with it, then! And bring two glasses--no, bring three glasses! Youmust drink a toast with us!"
Madame bustled off, laughing and excited, and again the Irishman grippedthe boy's shoulder.
"You've taken me in!" he cried. "Absolutely and entirely taken me in! Ithought you a slip of a boy with a head full of notions, and what do Ifind but that it's a little genius I've got! A genius, upon my word! Andhere comes the blessed liquor!"
His whole-hearted enthusiasm was like fire, it leaped from one to theother of his companions. As madame came back, gasping in her haste, heran to meet her, and, seizing the brandy and the glasses, drew her withhim to the table.
"Madame, you are a Frenchwoman--therefore an artist. Tell me what youthink of this!"
In his excitement he spoke in English, but madame understood his actionsif 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.
'Ah, but he was an artist, was monsieur! A true artist! It wasdelicious--ravishing!' She turned from one of her customers to theother. 'If monsieur would but put his name to this picture she wouldnever again have the table washed; and in time to come, when he had madehis big success--'
"Good, madame! Good! When he has made his big success he will come backhere and laugh and cry over this, and say, 'God be with the youth ofus!' as we say in my old country. Come, boy, put your name to it!"
"WHY, BOY, THIS IS CLEVER--CLEVER--CLEVER!"]
The boy glanced up at him. His face was aglow, there were tears ofemotion in his eyes.
"I can say nothing," he cried, "but that I--I have never been so happyin my life." And, bending over his sketch, he wrote across themarble-topped table a single word--the word 'Max.'
The Frenchwoman bent over his shoulder. "Max!" she murmured. "A prettyname!"
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 hisown.
"To the name of Max!" he said. "May it be known from here to the back ofGod's speed!" He swallowed the brandy and laid down his glass.
"To M. Max!" The Frenchwoman smiled. "A great future, monsieur!" Shesipped and bowed.
Of the three, the boy alone sat motionless. His heart felt strangelyfull, the tears in his eyes were dangerously near to falling.
"Come, Max! Up with your glass!"
"Monsieur, I--I beg you to excuse me! My heart is very full of yourkindness."
"Nonsense, boy! Drink!"
The boy laughed with a catch in his breath, then he drank a little withnervous haste, coughing as he laid his glass down. The _cognac_ of theMaison Gustav was of a fiery nature.
The Irishman laughed. "Ah, another peep behind the mask! You may be anartist, 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 _addition_, if you please! We must be going."
For a moment madame was lost in calculation, then she decorouslymentioned the amount of their debt.
The Irishman paid with the manner of a prince, and, slipping his armagain through the boy's, moved to the door; there he looked back.
"Good-day, madame! Many thanks for your charming hospitality! Give myrespects to monsieur, your husband--and kiss the little Leon for me!"
They passed out into the rue Fabert, into the fresh and frosty air, andinvoluntarily the boy's arm pressed his.
"How am I to thank you?" he murmured. "It is too much--this kindness toa stranger."
The Irishman paused and looked at him. "Thanks be damned!--and strangerbe damned!" he said with sudden vehemence. "Aren't we citizens of a freeworld? Must I know a man for years before I can call him my friend? Andmust every one I've known since childhood be my friend? I tell you I sawyou and I liked you--that was all, and 'twas enough."
Max looked at him with a certain grave simplicity. "Forgive me!" hesaid.
Instantly the other's annoyance was dispelled. "Forgive! Nonsense! Tellme your plans, that's all I want."
"My plans are very easy to explain. I shall rent a studio here inParis--and there I shall work."
"As a student?"
"No, I have had my years of study; I am older than you think." He tookno notice of the other's raised eyebrows. "I want to paint a picture--agreat picture. I am seeking the idea."
"Good! Good! Then we'll make that our basis--the search for the idea.The search for the great idea!"
Max thrilled. 'The search for the idea! How splendid! Where must itbegin? Not in fashionable Paris! Oh, not in fashionable Paris!'
"Fashionable Paris!" The Irishman laughed in loud disdain. "Oh no! Forus it must be the highways and the byways, eh?"
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 solitaryhere in Paris. Quite unknown, you understand?--quite unnoticed."
"The mystery? I understand. And now, tell me, shall it be the highwaysor the byways--Montmartre or the Quartier Latin?"
Max smiled decisively. "Montmartre."
"You know Montmartre?"
"No."
The Irishman laughed again. "Good!" he cried. "You're a fine adventurer!You have the right spirit! Always know your own mind, whatever elseyou're ignorant about! But I ought to tell you that Montmartre swarmswith your needy fellow-countrymen."
The boy looked up. "My needy fellow-countrymen will not harm me--or knowme."
"Good again! Then the coast is clear! I only thought to warn you."
"I appreciate the thought." For an instant the old reserve touched thevoice.
"Now, Max! Now! Now!" The other turned to him, caught his arm again, andswung him out into the Esplanade des Invalides. "You're not to be doingthat, you know! You're not! You're not! I see through you like a pane ofglass. Sometimes you forget yourself and get natural, like you did inthe _cafe_ this time back; then, all of a sudden, some imp of suspicionshakes his tail at you and says, 'Look here, young man, put thatIrishman in his place! Keep him at a respectable arm's length!' Now,isn't that gospel truth?"
The boy laughed, vanquished. "Monsieur," he said, naively, "I will notdo it again."
"That's right! You see, I'm not interesting or picturesque enough tosuspect. When all's said and done, I'm just a poor devil of an Irishmanwith enough imagination to prevent his doing any particular harm in thisworld, and enough money to prevent his doing any special good. My nameis Edward Fitzgerald Blake, and I have an old barracks of a castle inCounty Clare. I have five aunts, seven uncles, and twenty-four firstcousins, every one of whom thinks me a lost soul; but I have neithersister nor brother, wife nor child to help or hinder me. There now! Ihave gone to confession, and you must give me absolution and an easypenance!"
Max laughed. "Thank you, monsieur!"
"Not 'monsieur,' for goodness' sake! Plain Ned, if you don't mind."
"Ned?" The slight uncertainty, coupled with the foreign intonation, lenta charm to the name.
"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 particularsignificance. But I must be coming down to earth again, I have anappointment with our friend McCutcheon at three o'clock." He drew outhis watch. "Oh, by the powers and dominations, I have only two minutesto keep it in! How the time has raced! I say, there's an auto-taxilooming on the horizon, over by the Invalides; I must catch it if I can.Come, boy! Put your best foot foremost!"
Laughing and running like a couple of school-boys, they zigzaggedthrough the labyrinth of formal trees, and secured the cab as it waswheeling toward the _quais_.
"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 thedoor, his face, flushed from his run and from the cold, lookedpleasantly young. The boy's heart went out to him in a glow ofcomradeship.
"No, I will remain here. But I--I want to see you soon again. May I?"
"May you? Say the word! To-morrow? To-night?" The cab was snortingimpatience; Blake opened the door and stepped inside.
The boy colored. "To-night?"
"Right! To-night it shall be! To-night we'll scale the heights." He heldout his hand.
Max took it smilingly. "You have not asked me where I live."
"Never thought of it! Where is it?"
"The Hotel Railleux, in the rue de Dunkerque."
"Not a very festive locality! But sufficient for the day, eh? Well, I'llbe outside the door of the Hotel Railleux at nine o'clock."
"At nine o'clock. I shall be awaiting you."
"Right again! Good-bye! It's been a good morning."
Max smiled, a smile that seemed to have caught something of the sun'sbrightness, something of the promise of spring trembling in the palesky.
"It has been a good morning. I shall never forget it."
Blake laughed. "Don't say that, boy! We'll oust it with many a better."
He released the boy's hand and gave the address to the chauffeur. Therewas a moment's pause, a rasp and wrench of machinery, and the willinglittle cab flew off toward the nearest bridge.
Max stood watching it, obsessed by a strange sensation. This morning hehad been utterly alone; this morning the fair, cold face of Paris hadbeen immobile and speculative. Now a miracle had come to pass; thecoldness had been swept aside and the beauty, the warm, palpitatinghumanity had shone into his eyes, dazzling him--fascinating him.
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