Max

by Katherine Cecil Thurston

  CHAPTER X

  With a new day began a new epoch. On the morning following the night, offirst adventure Max woke in his odd, mountainous bed at the HotelRailleux kindling to fresh and definite sensations. In a mannermiraculously swift, miraculously smooth and subtle, he had discovered aniche in this strange city, and had elected to fit himself to it. Aknowledge of present, a pledge of future interests seemed to permeatethe atmosphere, and he rose and dressed with the grave deliberation ofthe being who sees his way clear before him.

  It was nine o'clock when he entered the _salle-a-manger_, and one sharpglance brought the satisfying conviction that it was deserted save forthe presence of the assiduous young waiter, who came hurrying forward asthough no span of hours and incidents separated yesterday's meal fromto-day's.

  His attentive attitude was unrelaxed, his smile was as deferential asbefore, but this morning he found a less responsive guest. Max wasfilled with a quiet assurance that debarred familiarity; Max, in fine,was bound upon a quest, and the submissive young waiter, the bareeating-room, Paris itself, formed but the setting and background in hisarrogant young mind to the greatness of the mission.

  The thought--the small seed of thought that was responsible for the ideahad been sown last night, as he leaned over the parapet fronting theSacre-Coeur, looking down upon the city with its tangle of lights; andlater, 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.

  He drank his coffee and ate his roll in happy preoccupation, and, havingfinished his meal, left the room and went quietly down the stairs andthrough the glass door of the hotel.

  The frost still held; Paris still smiled; and, buttoning up his coat, hepaused for a moment on the doorstep to turn his face to the copper-redsun and breathe in the crisp, invigorating air; then, with a quaintlydecisive manner that seemed to set sentiment aside, he walked to theedge of the footpath and hailed a passing _fiacre_.

  "To the church of the Sacre-Coeur," he commanded.

  The _cocher_ received the order with a grumble, looked from hisunreliable horse to the frosty roadway, and was about to shake his headin definite negation when Max cajoled him with a more ingratiatingvoice.

  "The rue Ronsard, then? Will you take me to the corner of the rueRonsard?"

  The man grumbled again, and shrugged his shoulders until his earsdisappeared in the shaggy depths of his fur cape; but, when all hopeseemed fled, he laconically murmured the one word "_Bon!_" whipped uphis horse, and started off with a fine disregard of whether his fare hadtaken his seat or been left behind upon the footpath.

  To those who know Montmartre only as an abode of night--a place of lightand laughter and folly--Montmartre in the day, Montmartre at half-pastnine in the morning, comes as a revelation. The whole picture is as acoin reversed. The theatres, the music-halls, the _cabarets_ all liewith closed eyes, innocently sleeping; the population ofpleasure-seekers and pleasure-mongers has disappeared as completely asif some magician had waved his wand, and in its place the streets teemwith the worker--the early, industrious shopkeeper and the householderbent upon a profitable morning's marketing. Max, gazing from the_fiacre_ with attentive eyes, followed the varying scenes, while hishorse wound a careful and laborious way up the cobble-paved streets, andnoted with an artist's eye the black, hurrying figures of the men,cloaked and hooded against the cold, and the black, homely figures ofthe women, silhouetted against the sharp greens and yellows of the ladenvegetable stalls at which they chattered and bargained.

  It was all noisy, interesting, alive; and us he watched the pleasant,changing pictures, his courage strengthened, his belief in his own starmounted higher; the decision of last night stood out, as so fewnocturnal decisions can stand out, unashamed and justified in the lightof day.

  At the corner where the rue Andre de Sarte joins the rue Ronsard hedismissed his cab, and with a young inquisitiveness in all thatconcerned the quarter, paused to look into the old curio shop, no longerclosed as on the previous night, but open and inviting in its dingysuggestion of mysteries unsolved.

  Now--at this moment of recording the boy's doings--the curio shop nolonger exists at the corner of the rue Andre de Sarte; it has faded intothe unknown with its coppers and brasses, its silver and tinsel, itswoollen and silk stuffs; but on that January morning of his first comingit still held place, its musty perfumes still conjured dreams, its opendoorway, festooned with antique objects, still offered tempting glimpsesinto the long and dim interior, where an old Jew, presiding genius ofthe place, lurked like a spider in the innermost circle of his web.

  Max lingered, drawn into self-forgetfulness by the blending of fadedhues, the atmosphere of must and spices, the air of age indescribablethat veiled the place. He loitered about the windows, peeped in at thedoorway, would even have ventured across the threshold had not aponderous figure, rising silently from a heap of cushions upon the floorof the inmost room, sent him hastening round the corner, guiltilyconscious that it was new lamps and not old he was here to light.

  The interest of his mission flowed back, sharpened by the momentarybreak, and it was with very swift steps that he ran up the Escalier deSainte-Marie to the rue Mueller; there, in the rue Mueller, he paused, hisback to the green plantation, his face to the row of houses rising oneabove the other, each with its open doorway, each with its front ofbrick and plaster, its iron balcony from which hung the inevitable arrayof blankets, rugs, and mattresses absorbing the morning air.

  To say that, in the mystic silence of the previous night and restlesshours of the dawn, Max had vowed to himself that here in the rue Muellerhe would make a home, and to add that, coming in the light of day, hefound a door open to him, sounds at the least fabulous; yet, as he stoodthere--eager, alert, with face lifted expectantly, and bright gazewinging to right and left--fable was made fact: the legend '_Appartementa louer_' caught his glance like a pronouncement of fate.

  It sounds fabulous, it sounds preposterous, and yet it obtains, to beaccounted for only by the fact that in this curious world there arecertain beings to whom it is given to say of all things with naivefaith, not 'I shall seek,' but 'I shall find.'

  Max had never doubted that, if courage were high enough to undertake thequest, absolute success awaited him. He read the legend again,'_Appartement a louer 5ieme etage. Gaz: l'eau,'_ and without hesitationcrossed the rue Mueller and passed through the open door.

  The difference was vast between his nervous entry thirty-six hours agointo the Hotel Railleux and the boldness of his step now. The differencebetween secret night and candid morning lay in the two proceedings--thedifference between self-distrust and self-confidence. Then he had been acreature newly created, looking upon himself and all the world with asensitive distrust; now he was an individual accepted of others, assuredof himself, already beginning to move and have his being in happyself-forgetfulness.

  He stepped into the hallway of the strange house and paused to lookabout him, his only emotion a keen interest that kept every nerve alert.The hallway round which he looked displayed no original features: it wasa lofty, rather narrow space, the walls of which--painted to resemblemarble--were defaced by time, by the passing of many skirts and therubbing of many shoulders. In the rear was a second door, composed ofglass, and beyond it the suggestion of a staircase of polished oak thatsprang upward from the dingy floor in a surprising beauty of panelleddado and fine old banister.

  Max's eyes rested upon this staircase: in renewed excitement he hurrieddown the hall and, regardless of the consequence, beat a quick tattoowith his knuckles upon the glass door.

  Silence greeted his imperative summons, and as he waited, listeningintently, he became aware of the monotonous hum of a sewing-machinecoming through a closed door upon his left.

  The knowledge of a human presence emboldened him; again he knocked, thistime more sharply, more persistently. Again inattention; then, as helifted his hand for the third time, th
e hum of the machine ceasedabruptly, the door opened, and he turned to confront a small woman withwispy hair and untidy clothes, whose bodice was adorned withinnumerable pins, and at whose side hung a pair of scissors large asshears.

  "Monsieur?" Her manner was curt--the manner of one who has beendisturbed at some engrossing occupation.

  Max felt rebuffed; he raised his hat and bowed with as close animitation as he could summon of Blake's ingratiating friendliness.

  "Madame, you have an _appartement_ to let?"

  "True, monsieur! An _appartement_ on the fifth floor--gas and water."There was pride in the last words, if a grudging pride.

  "Precisely! And it is a good _appartement_?"

  "No better in Montmartre."

  "A sufficiency of light?"

  'Light?' The woman smiled in scorn. 'Was it not open to the skies--withthose two windows in front, and that balcony?'

  Max's excitement kindled.

  "Madame, I must see this _appartement_! May I mount now--at once?"

  But the matter was no such light one. Madame shook her head. 'Ah, thatwas not possible!'

  'Why not?'

  'Ah, well, there was the _concierge_! The _concierge_ was out.'

  'But the _concierge_ would return?'

  'Oh yes! It was true he would return!'

  The little woman cast a wistful eye on the door of her own room.

  'At what hour?'

  'Ah! That was a question!'

  'This morning?'

  'Possibly!'

  'This afternoon?'

  'Possibly!'

  'But not for a certainty?'

  'Nothing was entirely certain.'

  Anger broke through Max's disappointment. Without a word he turned onhis heel and strode down the hall with the air of an offended prince.

  The woman watched him with an expressionless face until he reached thedoor, then something--perhaps his youth, perhaps his brave carriage,perhaps his defiant disappointment--moved her.

  "Monsieur!" she called.

  He stopped.

  "Monsieur, if it is absolutely necessary that you see the_appartement_--"

  "It is. Absolutely necessary." Max ran back.

  "Then, monsieur, I will conduct you up-stairs."

  The suggestion was greedily seized upon. This _appartement_ on the fifthfloor had grown in value with each moment of denial.

  "Thank you, madame, a thousand times!"

  "Shall we mount?"

  "On the moment, if you will."

  Through the glass door they went, and up the stairs, mounting higher andever higher in an unbroken silence. Half way up each flight of stairsthere 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. Itwas an unexpected quality, this rigid cleanliness, and the boyacknowledged it with a mute and deep satisfaction.

  Upon each landing were two doors--closed doors that sturdily guardedwhatever of secrecy might lie behind, and at each of these silentportals Max glanced with that intent and searching look that one bestowsupon 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 laststep of the stairs to survey the coveted fifth floor.

  It was as bare, as scrupulously clean as were the other landings; buthis quick glance noted that while the door upon the left was plain andunadorned as the others he had passed, that upon the right bore a smallbrass plate engraved with the name 'L. Salas.'

  This, then, was his possible neighbor! He scanned the name attentively.

  "This is the fifth floor, madame?"

  "The fifth floor, monsieur!" Without ceremony the little woman wentforward and, to his astonishment, rapped sharply upon the door with thebrass plate.

  Max started. "Madame! The _appartement_ is not occupied?"

  The only reply that came to him was the opening of the door by an inchor two and the hissing whisper of a conversation of which he caught noword. Then the lady of the scissors looked round upon him, and the doorclosed.

  "One moment, monsieur, while madame throws on a garment!"

  A sudden loss of nerve, a sudden desire for flight seized upon Max. Hehad mounted the stairs anticipating the viewing of empty rooms, and nowhe was confronted with a furnished and inhabited _appartement_, andcommanded to wait 'while madame threw on a garment'! A hundredspeculations crowded to his mind. Into what _milieu_ was he about to behurled? What sordid morning scene was he about to witness? In a strangeconfusion of ideas, the white face of the woman Lize sprang to hisimagination, coupled with the memory of the empty champagne bottle andthe battered tray of the first night at the Hotel Railleux. A deadlysensitiveness oppressed him; he turned sharply to his guide.

  "Madame! Madame! It is an altogether unreasonable hour to intrude--"

  The reopening of the door on the right checked him, and a gentle voicebroke across his words:

  "Now, madame, if you will!"

  He turned, his heart still beating quickly, and a sudden shame at hisown thoughts--a sudden relief so strong as almost to be painful--surgedthrough him.

  The open door revealed a woman of forty-five, perhaps of fifty, clothedin a meagre black skirt and a plain linen wrapper of exquisitecleanliness. It was this cleanliness that struck the note of herpersonality--that fitted her as a garment, accentuating the quietausterity of her thin figure, the streaks of gray in her brown hair, thepale face marked with suffering and sympathy and repression.

  With an instinctive deference the boy bared his head.

  "Madame," he stammered, "I apologize profoundly for my intrusion at suchan hour."

  "Do not apologize, monsieur. Enter, if you will!" She drew back, smilinga little, and making him welcome by a simple gesture. "We are anxious, Iassure you, to find a tenant for the _appartement_; my husband's healthis not what it was, and we find it necessary to move into the country."

  He followed her into a tiny hall; and with her fingers on the handle ofan inner door, she looked at him again in her gentle, self-possessedway.

  "You will excuse my husband, monsieur! He is an invalid and cannot risefrom his chair."

  She opened the inner door, and Max found himself in a bedroom, plain infurniture and without adornment, but possessing a large window, the fulllight from which was falling with pathetic vividness on the shrunkenfigure and wan, expressionless face of a very old man who sat huddled ina shabby leathern arm-chair. This arm-chair had been drawn to thewindow to catch the wintry sun, and pathos unspeakable lay in thecontrasts of the picture--the eternal youth in the cold, dancingbeams--the waste, the frailty of human things in the inert figure, thedim eyes, the folded, twitching hands.

  The old man looked up as the little party entered, and his eyes soughthis 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 oldblack skullcap that covered his head.

  "He wishes to greet you, monsieur, but he has not the strength." Thewoman's voice dropped to tenderness, and she stooped and arranged therug about the shrunken knees. "If you will come this way, I will showyou the _salon_."

  She moved quietly forward, opening a second door.

  "You see, monsieur, it is all very convenient. In summer you can throwthe windows open and pass from one room to the other by way of thebalcony."

  She moved from the bedroom into the _salon_ as she spoke, Max and thelady of the pins following.

  "See, monsieur! It is quite a good room."

  Max, still subdued by the vision of age, went forward silently, but ashe entered this second room irrepressible surprise possessed him. Herewas an atmosphere he had not anticipated. A soft, if faded, carpetcovered the floor; a fine old buffet stood against the wall; antiquecarved chairs were drawn up to a massive table that had obviously knownmore spacious surroundings; while upon the walls, from floor to ceiling,were pictures--pictures of all sizes, pictures obviously from the samehand, on the heavy gold frames of which the name 'L.
Salas' stood outconspicuously in proof of former publicity.

  "Madame!" He turned to the sad-faced woman, the enthusiasm of afellow-craftsman instantly kindled. "Madame! You are an artist? This isyour work?"

  The woman caught the sympathy, caught the fire of interest, and a faintflush warmed her cheek.

  "Alas, no, monsieur! I am not artistic. It is my husband who is thecreator of these." She waved her hand proudly toward the walls. "Myhusband is an artist."

  "A renowned artist!"

  It was the woman of the pins and scissors who spoke, surprising Max, notby 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 trueBohemia!'--and he looked curiously from one to the other of the women,so utterly apart in station, in education, in ideals, yet bound by acommon respect for art.

  "It is my loss," he said, quietly, "that I did not, until to-day, knowof M. Salas."

  "But no, monsieur! What would you know of twenty years ago? It is truethat then my husband had a reputation; but, alas, time movesquickly--and the world is for the young!"

  She smiled again, gently and patiently, and a sudden desire seized Maxto lift and kiss one of her thin, work-worn hands. The whole pitifulstory of a vogue outlived, of a generation pushed aside, breathed in thesilence of these fifth-floor rooms.

  "They must be a great pride to you, madame--these pictures."

  "These, monsieur--and the fact that he is still with me. We can dispensewith anything save the being we love--is it not so? But I must notdetain you, talking of myself! The other rooms are still to see! This,monsieur, is our second bedroom! And this the kitchen!"

  Max, following her obediently, took one peep into what was evidentlyher own bedroom--a tiny apartment of rigid simplicity, in which a narrowbed, with a large black crucifix hanging above it, seemed the onlyfurniture, and passed on into the kitchen, a room scarce larger than acupboard, in which a gas-stove and a water-tap promised future utility.

  "See, monsieur! Everything is very convenient. All things are close athand for cooking, and the light is good. And now, perhaps, you wouldwish to pass back into the _salon_ and step out upon the balcony?"

  Still silent, still preoccupied, he assented, and they passed into theroom so eloquent of past hours and dwindled fortunes.

  "See, monsieur! The view is wonderful! Not to-day, perhaps, for thefrost blurs the distances; but in the spring--a little later in theyear--"

  Crossing the room, she opened the long French window and stepped outupon the narrow iron balcony.

  Max followed, and, moving to her side, stood gazing down upon the cityof his dreams. For long he stood absorbed in thought, then he turned andlooked frankly into her face.

  "Madame," he said, softly, "it is a place of miracle. It is here that Ishall live."

  She smiled. She had served an apprenticeship in the reading of theartist's heart--the child's heart.

  "Yes, monsieur? You will live here?"

  "As soon, madame, as it suits you to vacate the _appartement_."

  Again she smiled, gently, indulgently. "And may I ask, monsieur, whetheryou have ascertained the figure of the rent?"

  "No, madame."

  "And is not that--pardon me!--a little improvident?"

  Max laughed. "Probably, madame! But if it demanded my last franc Iwould give that last franc with an open heart, so greatly do I desirethe place."

  The quiet eyes of the woman softened to a gentle comprehension.

  "You are an artist, monsieur."

  The color leaped into the boy's face, his eyes flashed with triumph.

  "Madame, how did you guess?"

  "It is no guessing, monsieur. You tell me with every word."

  "Ah, madame, I thank you!" With a charming, swift grace he bent andcaught her hand. "And, madame"--he hesitated naively and colored again."Madame, I would like to say that when my home is here it will be mycare never to desecrate the atmosphere you have created." He bent stilllower, the sun caressing his crisp, dark hair, and very lightly his lipstouched her fingers.

  "_Adieu_, madame!"

  "_Adieu_, monsieur!"