Max

by Katherine Cecil Thurston

  CHAPTER XI

  It seemed to Max, as the door closed behind him and he found himselfupon the bare landing, that he had dreamed and was awake again; for intruth the _menage_ into which he had been permitted to peep seemed morethe fabric of a dream than part of the new, inconsequent life he hadelected to make his own. A curious halo of the ideal--of things setabove the corroding touch of time or fortune--surrounded the old manforgotten of his world, and the patient wife, content in her one frailpossession.

  He felt without comprehending that here was some precious essence, someelixir of life, secret as it was priceless; and for an instant a shadow,a doubt, a question crossed his happy egoism. But the sharp, inquisitivevoice of his guide brought him back to material things.

  "You like the _appartement_, monsieur?"

  He threw aside his disturbing thoughts.

  "Undoubtedly, madame!" he said, quickly. "It is here that I shall live."Without conscious intention he used the phrase that he had used toBlake--that he had used to Madame Salas.

  "You are quick of decision, monsieur?"

  "It is well, at least, to know one's own mind, madame! And now tell mewho I shall have for my neighbor." As they moved toward the head of thestairs, he indicated the second door on the landing--the door innocentof name, bell, or knocker.

  "For neighbor, monsieur? Ah, I comprehend! That is the _appartement_ ofM. Lucien Cartel, a musician; but his playing will not disturb you, forthe walls are thick--and, in any case, he is a good musician."

  A conclusion, winged with excitement, formed itself in the mind of Max.

  "Madame!" he cried. "He plays the violin--this M. Cartel?"

  "Both violin and piano, monsieur. He has a great talent."

  "And, madame, he played last night? He played last night between thehours of ten and eleven?"

  "He plays constantly, monsieur, but of last night I am not sure. Lastnight was eventful for M. Cartel! Last night--But I speak too much!"

  She glanced at Max, obviously desiring the question that would unlooseher tongue. But Max was not alert for gossip, he was listening insteadto a faint sound, long drawn out and fine as a silver thread, that wasslipping through the crevices of M. Cartel's door.

  "Ah, there he goes!" interjected the little woman. "Always at the music,whatever life brings!"

  "And I am right! It was he who played last night. How curious!"

  The woman glanced up, memory quickening her expression.

  "But, yes, monsieur, you are perfectly correct," she said. "M. Carteldid play last night. I remember now. I was finishing the hem of a blackdress for Madame Devet, of the rue des Abesses, when my husband came inat eleven o'clock. He walked in, leaving the door open--the door I camethrough this morning at your knock--and he stood there, blowing upon hisfingers, 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, andwho should come flying into the hallway but M. Cartel himself. He pausedfor an instant, seeing our door open, and he, too, was laughing. 'What afellow that Charpentier is!' he cried to my husband. 'His _Louise_ haskept me until I am all but late for my _rendezvous_!' And he ran outthrough the hall, singing as he went. That was all I saw of M. Carteluntil two o'clock this morning, when some one knocked upon our door--"

  But she was permitted to go no further. The silvery notes of the violinhad dwindled into silence, and Max abruptly remembered that he had anappointment with Blake on the Boulevard des Italiens.

  "You are very good, madame, but it is necessary that I go! When can Isee the _concierge_?"

  "The _concierge_, monsieur, is my husband. He will be here for acertainty at one o'clock."

  "Good, madame! At one o'clock I shall return."

  He smiled, nodded, and ran down the first flight of stairs; but by thewindow at the half-landing he stopped and looked back.

  "Madame, tell me something! What is the rent of the _appartement_?"

  "The rent? Two hundred and sixty francs the year."

  "Two hundred and sixty francs the year!" His voice was perfectlyexpressionless. Then, apparently without reason, he laughed aloud andran down-stairs.

  The woman looked after him, half inquisitively, half in bewilderment;then to herself, in the solitude of the landing, she shook her head.

  "An artist, for a certainty!" she said, aloud, and, turning, sheretraced her steps and knocked with her knuckles on the door of M.Lucien Cartel.

  Meanwhile, Max finished his descent of the stairs, his feet glidingwith pleasant ease down the polished oak steps, his hand slippingsmoothly down the polished banister. Already the joy of the free lifewas singing in his veins, already in spirit he was an inmate of thishouse of many histories. He darted across the hall, picturing inimagination the last night's haste of M. Cartel of the violin. Whatwould 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, asthough dinner was not a certainty on every day of the seven? He laugheda little to himself light-heartedly, and gained the street door withunnecessary, heedless speed--gained it on the moment that anotherpedestrian, moving swiftly as himself, entered, bringing him to a sharpconsciousness of the moment.

  Incomer and outgoer each drew back a step, each laughed, each tenderedan apology.

  "_Pardon_, monsieur!"

  "_Pardon_, mademoiselle!"

  Then simultaneously a flash of recognition leaped into both faces.

  "Why," cried the girl, "it is the little friend of the friend of Lize!How droll to meet like this!"

  Her candor of speech was disarming; reticence fled before her smile,before her artless friendliness.

  "What a strange chance!" said Max. "What brings you to the rue Mueller,mademoiselle?"

  She smiled, and in her smile there was a little touch of pride--anindefinite pride that glowed about her slender, youthful person like anaura.

  "Monsieur, I live in this house--now."

  "Now?" Sudden curiosity fired him.

  "Ah, you do not comprehend! Last night was sad, monsieur; to-day--" Shestopped.

  "To-day, mademoiselle?"

  For a second the clear, childish blue of her eyes flashed like a glimpseof spring skies.

  "It is too difficult, monsieur--the explanation. It is as I say. Lastnight was dark; to-day the sun shines!" She laughed, displaying thedazzling whiteness of her teeth. "And you, monsieur?" she added, gayly."You also live here in the rue Mueller? Yes? No?" She bent her headprettily, first to one side, then to the other, as she put herquestions.

  "I hope to live here, mademoiselle."

  "Ah! Then I wish you, too, the sunshine, monsieur! Good-day!"

  "Good-day, mademoiselle!"

  It was over--the little encounter; she moved into the dark hallway aslight, as joyous, as inconsequent as a bird. And Max passed out into thesharp, crisp air, sensible that the troubling memories of the BalTarbarin had in some strange manner been effaced--that inadvertently hehad touched some source whence the waters of life bubbled in eternal,crystal freshness.

  In the rue Ronsard he found a disengaged cab, and in ten minutes he waswheeling down into the heart of Paris. It was nearing the hour of_dejeuner_, the boulevards were already filling, and the cold, crisp airseemed to vibrate to the bustle of hurrying human creatures seriouslyabsorbed in the thought of food.

  He smiled to himself at this humorously grave homage offered up sountiringly, so zealously to the appetite, as he made his way between thelong line of tables at the restaurant where he had appointed to meetBlake. Like all else that appertains to the Frenchman, its veryfrankness disarmed criticism or disgust. He looked at the beaming faces,smiling up from the wide-spread napkins in perfect accord with life, andagain, involuntarily, he smiled. It was essentially a good world,whatever the pessimists might say!

  From a side-table he heard his name called, and with an added glow ofpleasure, he turned, saw Blake, and made his way through the closelyr
anged chairs and the throng of hurrying waiters.

  "Well, boy! Dissipation suits you, it seems! You're looking well. Justout of bed, I suppose?"

  Max laughed. Words were brimming to his lips, until he knew not how tospeak.

  "And now, what 'll you eat? I waited to order until you came."

  "I do not know that I can eat."

  "God bless my soul, why not? Sit down!"

  Max laughed again, dropped obediently into a chair, rested his arms onthe table, and looked full at Blake.

  "May I speak?"

  "From now till Doomsday! _Garcon_!"

  But Max laid an impulsive hand upon his arm.

  "Wait! Do not order for one moment! I must tell you!" He gave a littlegasp of excitement. "I have seen an _appartement_ in the rue Mueller--an_appartement_ with a charming _salon_ opening upon a balcony, a nicelittle bedroom, another room with an excellent painting light, a kitchenwith water and gas, all--all for what do you imagine?"

  "What in God's name are you raving about?" Blake laid down the _menu_just handed to him.

  Max paid not the slightest heed.

  "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 ofdays for a suite of hotel rooms! I am mad since I have seen theplace--quite mad!" He laughed again so excitedly that the people at theneighboring table stared.

  "I can subscribe to that!" said Blake, satirically.

  "Listen! Listen! You have not heard; you have not understood. I havefound an _appartement_ in the rue Mueller, at Montmartre--the_appartement_ I had set my heart upon, the place where I can live andpaint and make my success!"

  Blake stared at him in silence.

  "Yes! Yes!" Max insisted. "And it is all quite settled. And you arecoming back with me to-day at one o'clock to interview the _concierge_!"

  Blake threw himself back in his chair. "I'm hanged if I am!"

  Yesterday the boy would have drawn back upon the instant, armored in hispride, but to-day his reply was to look direct into Blake's face withfascinating audacity.

  "Then you will leave me to contend alone against who can say whatvillain--what _apache_?"

  "It strikes me you are qualified to deal with any _apache_."

  "You are angry!"

  "Angry! I should think not!"

  "Oh yes, you are!" Max's eyes shone, his lips curled into smiles.

  "And why should I be angry? Because your silly little wings have begunto sprout? I'm not such a fool, my boy! I knew well enough you'd soon beflying alone."

  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 madea little discovery all by myself! Is it not like a--" He stopped,laughed, reddened as though he had made some slip, and then on theinstant altered his whole expression to one of appeal and contrition.

  "_Mon ami_!"

  Blake's reply was to pick up the _menu_ and turn to the attendingwaiter.

  "Monsieur Ned!"

  Blake glanced at him reluctantly, caught the softened look, and laughed.

  "You're a young scamp--and I suppose I'm a cross-grained devil! But if Iwas angry, where's the wonder? A man doesn't pick up a quaint littlebook on the _quais_, and look to have it turning its own leaves!"

  "But now? Now it is all forgiven? You will not cast away your littlebook because--because the wind came and fluttered the pages?"

  Once again Max spoke softly, with the softness that broke so alluringlyacross the reckless independence of look and gesture.

  A sudden consciousness of this fascination--a sudden annoyance withhimself that he should yield to it--touched Blake.

  "I can't go with you to Montmartre," he said, abruptly. "It'sMcCutcheon's last day in Paris, and I promised to give him theafternoon."

  "Who? The long, spider man who disliked me?"

  "A spider who weaves big webs, I can tell you! You ought to be morerespectful to your elders."

  "And I ought to have a studio across the river? Oh, Monsieur Ned, ordersome food, for the love of God! I am perishing of hunger."

  Blake ordered the _dejeuner_, and talked a great deal upon indifferentsubjects while they ate; but each felt jarred, each felt disappointed,though neither could exactly have said why. At last, with a certainrelief, they finished their coffee and made a way between the long linesof tables to the door.

  There they halted for a moment in mutual hesitation, and at last the boyheld out his hand.

  "And now I must wish you good-bye! Shall I see you any more?"

  Blake seemed lost in thought; he took no notice of the proffered hand.

  "Are you going to drive or walk?" He put the question after aconsiderable pause.

  "I thought to drive, because--"

  Without permitting him to complete the sentence Blake crossed thefootpath and hailed a passing cab.

  "Come on! In you get!"

  Max obeyed uncertainly, and as he took his seat a sudden fear of losscrushed him--life became blank, the brightness of the sun was eclipsed.

  "Monsieur Ned!" he called. "Monsieur Ned! I shall see you again?"

  Blake was speaking to the _cocher_. 'Rue Ronsard!' he heard him say.'The corner of the rue Andre de Sarte!'

  He leaned out of the window.

  "Monsieur Ned! Monsieur Ned! I shall see you again? This is notgood-bye?"

  Blake turned; he laid his hand on the door of the cab and suddenlysmiled his attractive, humorous smile.

  "Little fool!" he said. "Didn't you know I was coming with you?"

  PART II