CHAPTER VIII
Nine o'clock found Max waiting in the rue de Dunkerque. Paris,consummate actress that she is, was already arraying herself for thenightly appeal to her audience of pleasure-seekers. Like a dancer in herdressing-room, she but awaited the signal to step forth into the glamourof the footlights; the rouge was on her lips, the stars shone in herhair, the jewelled slippers caressed her light feet. Even here, in thecolorless region of the Gare du Nord, the perfumed breath of thecourtesan city crept like the fumes of wine; the insidious sense ofnocturnal energy swept the brain, as the traffic jingled by and thecrowds upon the footpaths thronged into the _cafes_ and overflowed intothe roadway.
To the boy, walking slowly up and down, with eager eyes that sought theone face among the many, the scene came as a joyous revelation thatcalled inevitably to his youth and his vitality. He made no pretence ofanalyzing his sensations: he was stirred, intoxicated by the movement,the lights, the naturalness and artificiality that walked hand-in-handin so strange a fellowship. A new excitement, unlike the excitement ofthe morning, was at work within him; his blood danced, his brainanswered to every fleeting picture. He was in that subtlest of all moodswhen the mind swings out upon the human tide, comprehending its everyripple 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; butthe inspiration was there--the exaltation--that made him one with thisrestless throng of men and women whose antecedents were unknown to him,whose future was veiled to his gaze.
The sensation culminated when, out of the crowd, a hand was laid uponhis shoulder and a familiar voice rose above the babble of sound.
"Well, and are we girded for the heights?"
It came at the right moment, it lilted absolutely with his thoughts--thesoft, pleasant tones, the easy friendliness that seemed to accept allthings as they came. His instant answer was to smile into the Irishman'sface and to press the arm that had been slipped through his.
"It's too early for anything very characteristic, but there are alwaysimpressions to be got."
Again the boy replied by a pressure of the arm, and together he andBlake began to walk. The strange pleasure of yielding himself to thisman's will filtered through Max's being again, as it had done thatmorning, painting the world in rosy tints. The situation was anomalous,but he ignored the anomaly. His boats were burned; the great ice-boundsea protected him from the past; he was here in Paris, in the firstmoments of a fascinating present, under the guardianship of this comradewhose face he had never seen until yesterday, whose very name was stillunfamiliar to his ears. It was anomalous, but it held happiness; andwho, equipped with youth and health, starting out upon life's road,stops to question happiness? He was the adventuring prince in thefairy-tale: every step was taken upon enchanted ground.
Nothing gave him cause for quarrel as they made their way onward. Eventhe Boulevard de Magenta, with its prosaic tram-lines, its large, cheapshops, its common _brasseries_ and spanning railway bridge, seemed aplace of promise; and as they passed on, ever mounting towardMontmartre, his brain quickened to new joy, new curiosity in everyflaunting advertisement, every cobble-stone in the long steep way of theBoulevard Barbes, the rue de la Nature, and the rue de Clignancourt,until at length they emerged into the rue Andre de Sarte--that narrowstreet, quaint indeed in its dark old houses and its small, mysteriouswine shops that savor of Italy or Spain.
They paused, at the corner of the rue Andre de Sarte, by the doorway ofan old, overcrowded curio shop--the curio shop that in time to come wasdestined to become so familiar a landmark to them both, to standsentinel at the gateway of so many emotions.
The lights, the shadows, the effects were all uncertain in this strangeand fascinating neighborhood. High above them, white against the wintersky, glimmered the domes of the Sacre-Coeur, looking down in symbolicsilence upon the restless city; to the left stretched the rue Ronsard,with its deserted market and lonely pavement; to the right, the Escalierde Sainte-Marie, picturesque as its name, wound its precipitous wayapparently to the very stars, while at their feet, creeping upward tothe threshold of the church, was the plantation of rocks, trees, andholly bushes that in the mysterious darkness seemed aquiver with athousand whispered secrets. There was deep contrast here to theexcitement, the vivacity of the boulevards; it seemed as if some shadowfrom the white domes above had given sanctuary to the spirit of theplace--the familiar spirit of the time-stained houses, the stone stepsworn by many feet, the dark, naked trees.
The boy's hand again pressed his companion's arm.
"What are those steps?" He pointed to the right.
"The Escalier de Sainte-Marie; they lead up to the rue Mueller, and, ifyou desire it, to the Sacre-Coeur itself. Shall we climb?"
"But yes! Certainly!" The boy's voice was tense and eager. He hurriedforward, drawing his companion with him, and side by side they began themounting 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.
Up they went, their ears attentive to the conflicting sounds thatdrifted forth from the doorways, their nostrils assailed by the faintlypungent scent of the shrubs in the plantation. Higher and higher theyclimbed, sensible with each step of a greater isolation, of a rarer,clearer air. Above them, in one of the higher houses in the rue Mueller,some one was playing a fiddle, and the piercing sweet sounds camethrough the night like a human voice, adding the poignancy, the passionand pathos of human things to the aloofness and unreality of the scene.
The boy was the first to catch this lonely music, and as though itcalled to him in some curious way, he suddenly freed his arm fromBlake's and ran forward up the steps.
When Blake overtook him he had passed up the rue Mueller, and was leaningover the wooden paling that fronts the Sacre-Coeur, his elbows restingupon it, his face between his hands, his eyes held by the glitter ofParis lying below him.
Blake came quietly up behind him. "I thought you had given me the slip."
He turned. Again the light of inspiration, the curious illumination wasapparent in his face.
"This is most wonderful!" he said. "Most wonderful! It is here that Ishall live. Here--here--with Paris at my feet."
Blake laughed--laughed good-humoredly at the finality, the artlessarrogance of the tone.
"It may not be so easy to find a dwelling in the shadow of theSacre-Coeur."
Max looked at him with calm, grave eyes. "I do not considerdifficulties, monsieur. It is here that I shall live. My mind is madeup."
"But this is not the artists' quarter. You may seek your inspiration inMontmartre, but you must have your studio across the river."
"Why must I? What compels me?"
The Irishman shrugged his shoulders. "Nothing compels you, but it is thething to do. You can live here, certainly, if you want to--there is nolaw to forbid it--and you can find a studio on the Boulevard de Clichy;but the other is the thing to do."
The boy smiled his young wise smile. "Monsieur, there is only one thingto do--the thing one wants to do, the thing the heart compels. If I amto 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 theskies. Listen! That musician knows it!" He thrust out his handimpulsively and caught Blake's in a pressure full of nervous tension,full of magnetism. "What is it he plays? Tell me! Tell me!"
His touch, his excitement fired Blake's Celtic blood, banishing his moodof criticism.
"The man is playing scraps from _Louise_--Charpentier's _Louise_."
"I have never heard _Louise_."
"What! And you a student of Paris? Why, it's Charpentier's hymn toMontmartre. Listen, now!" His voice quickened. "He's playing a bit outof the night scene. He's playing the declaration of the _Noctambule_:
"Je suis le Plaisir de Paris! Je vais vers les Amantes--que le Desir tourmente! Je vais, cherchant les coeurs qu'oubli a le bo
nheur. La-bas glanant le Rire, ici semant l'Envie, Prechant partout le droit de tous a la folie; Je suis le Procureur de la grande Cite! Ton humble serviteur--ou ton maitre!"
He murmured the words below his breath, pausing as the music deepenedwith the passion of the player and the sinister song poured into thenight.
Then came a break, a pause, and the music flowed forth again, butcuriously altered, curiously softened in character.
Max's fingers tightened. "Ah, but listen now, my friend!"
Blake turned to him in quick appreciation. "Good! Good! You are anartist! That's Louise singing in the third act, on the day she is to beMuse of Montmartre. It is up here in the little house her lover hasprovided for her; it is twilight, and she is in the garden, looking downupon all this"--he waved his hand comprehensively--"it is hermoment--the triumph and climax of love. Try to think what she issaying!" He paused, and they stood breathless and enchained, while theviolin trembled under the hand of its master, vibrant and penetrating.
"What is it she says?" Max whispered the words.
Blake's reply was to murmur the burden of the song in the same hushedway as he had spoken the song of the _Noctambule_.
"Depuis le jour ou je me suis donnee, toute fleurie semble ma destinee. Je crois rever sous un ciel de feerie, l'ame encore grisee de ton premier baiser!"
But, abruptly--abruptly as a light might be extinguished--the musicceased, and Max released Blake's hand.
"It is all most wonderful," he said; "but the words of that song--theydo not quite please me."
"Why? Have you never sung that '_l'ame encore grisee de ton premierbaiser_!'"
Then, as if half ashamed of the emotional moment, he gave a littlelaugh, satirical and yet sad.
"Was there never a little dancer," he added, "never a little model inall these years--and you so very ancient?"
The boy ignored the jest.
"I am not a believer in love," he said, evasively.
"Not a believer in love! Well, upon my soul, the world is getting veryold! You look like a child from school, and you talk like some quaintlittle book I might have picked up on the _quais_. What does it allmean?"
At the perplexity of the tone Max laughed. "Very little, _mon ami_! I amno philosopher; but about this love, I have thought a little, and havegained to a conclusion. It is like this! Light love is desire ofpleasure; great love is fear of being alone."
"Then you hold that man should be alone?"
"Why not?" Max shrugged his shoulders. "We come into the world alone; wego out of it alone."
"A cold philosophy!"
"A true one, I think. If more lives were based upon it we would havemore achievement and less emotion."
The Irishman's enthusiasm caught sudden fire.
"And who wants less emotion? Isn't emotion the salt of life? Why, wherewould a poor devil of a wanderer like myself be, if he hadn't the dreamin the back of his head that the right woman was waiting for himsomewhere?"
Max watched him seriously.
"Then you have never loved?"
"Never loved? God save us! I have been in and out of love ever since Iwas seventeen. But, bless your heart, that has nothing to do with theright woman!"
Max's intent eyes flashed. "And you think the right woman will becontent to take you--after all that?"
Blake came a step nearer, leaning over the parapet, his shouldertouching his companion's.
"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 canchange 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 thedepths and rub shoulders with the worst, and yet keep the soul of himclean for the one woman."
"Don't you think there are men who can do without either the depths orthe one woman?"
"There are abnormalities, of course."
Max waived the words. "I am serious. I ask you if you do not believethat there are certain people to whom these things you speak of are poorthings--people who believe that they are sufficient unto themselves?"
The other's mouth twisted into a sarcastic smile.
"Show me the man who is sufficient unto himself!"
Swiftly--as swiftly as he had whipped the pencil from his pocket in the_cafe_ that morning--Max stepped back, his head up, his hand restinglightly on the wooden parapet.
"Monsieur! You see him!"
Blake's expression changed to keen surprise; he turned sharply andpeered into the boy's face.
"You?" he said, incredulously. "You, a slip of a boy, to ignore thesofter side of life and set yourself up against Nature? Take thatfairy-tale elsewhere!"
Max laughed. "Very well, my friend, wait and see!"
"And do you know how long I give you to defy the world, the flesh, andthe devil? A full-blooded young animal like you!"
"How long?"
"Three months--not a day more."
"Three months!" Max laughed, and, as had happened before, his moodaltered with the laugh. The moment of artistic exaltation passed; againhe was the boy--the adventurer, brimming with spirits, thirsting tobreak a lance with life. "Three months! Very well! Wait and see! And, inthe mean time, Paris is awake, is she not?"
Blake looked at the laughing face, the bright eyes, and shook his head.
"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 thatplantation!"
It is unlikely that Max understood all the other's phrases, but heunderstood the lenient, bantering tone that had in it a touch ofsomething bordering upon affection, and with a gracious eagerness hestepped forward and slipped his hand through the proffered arm.
"Where are you going to take me?" All the lightness, all the arrogancehad melted from his voice, his tone was almost as soft, almost assubmissive as a woman's.
Blake looked down upon him. "I hardly know--after that philosophy ofyours! I thought of taking you to a little Montmartre _cabaret_, wheremany a poet wrote his first verses and many an artist sang his firstsong--a dingy place, but a place with atmosphere."
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 wemiss a moment!"
"Good! Then hey for the Boulevard de Clichy and the quest of the greatidea!"
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