CHAPTER XIII
To the zest of the amateur, Blake added knowledge of a practical kind inthe arrangement of household gods, and long ere the February dusk hadfallen, the fifth-floor _appartement_ had assumed a certain homeliness.True, much of the 'old iron,' as he termed the coppers and brasses forwhich Max had bartered in the rue Andre de Sarte, still encumbered thefloor, and most of the windows cried aloud for covering; but the little_salon_ was habitable, and in the bedroom once occupied by Madame Salasa bed and a dressing-table stood forth, fresh and enticing enough tosuggest a lady's chamber, while over the high window white sergecurtains shut out the cold.
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 ateach other by the uncertain light of half a dozen candles stuck intobowls and vases in various corners of the _salon_.
"Boy," said Blake, breaking what had been a long silence, "I tell youwhat it is, you're done! Take a warm by the fire for a minute, while Itub under the kitchen tap, then we'll fare forth for a meal and a breathof air!"
Max, who had worked with fierce zeal if little knowledge, made noprotest. His face was pale, and he moved with a certain slow weariness.
"Here! Let's test the big chair!" Blake pulled forward the deep leathernarm-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 intoit.
"Comfortable?"
"Very comfortable." The voice was a little thin.
The other looked down upon him. "You're done, you know! Literally done!Why didn't you give in sooner?"
"Because I was not tired--and I am not tired."
"Not tired! And your face is as white as a sheet! I don't believe you'refit to go out for food."
"How absurd! You talk as though I were a child!" Max lifted himselfpetulantly on one elbow, but his head drooped and the remonstrance diedaway before it was finished.
"I talk as if you were a child, do I? Then I talk uncommon good sense!Well, I'm off to wash."
"There is some soap in my bedroom." The voice seemed to come from agreat distance, the elbow slipped from the arm of the chair, the darkhead drooped still more, and as the door shut upon Blake, the eyelidsclosed mechanically.
Blake's washing was a protracted affair, for the day had been long andthe toil strenuous; but at last he returned, face and hands clean, hairsmooth, and clothes reduced to order.
"Sorry for being so long," he began, as he walked into the room; butthere he stopped, his eyebrows went up, and his face assumed a curiouslook, half amused, half tender.
"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 figurewas curled up in the pleasant embrace of sleep.
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.
THE IMPRESSION OF A MYSTERY FLOWED BACK UPON HIM]
One hand lay carelessly on either arm of the chair; the head was thrownback, the black lashes of the closed eyes cast shadows on the smoothcheeks.
Blake looked long and interestedly, and his earliest impression--theimpression of a mystery--flowed back upon him strong as on the night ofthe long journey.
The beauty and strength of the face called forth thought; and Max's owndeclaration, so often repeated, came back upon him with new meaning, 'Iam older than you think!'
For almost the first time the words carried weight. It was not that thefeatures looked older; if anything they appeared younger in their deeprepose. But the expression--the slight knitting of the dark brows, theset of the chin, the modelling of the full lips, usually so mobile andprone to laughter--suggested a hidden force, gave warranty of a depth, astrength irreconcilable with a boy's capacities.
He looked--puzzled, attracted; then his glance dropped from the face tothe pathetically tired limbs, and the sense of pity stirred anew,banishing question, causing the light of a pleasant inspiration toawaken in his eyes.
Smiling to himself, he replenished the fire with exaggerated stealth;and, creeping out of the room, closed the door behind him.
He was gone for over half an hour, and when he again entered, the firehad sprung into new life, and fresh flames--blue and sulphur andcopper-colored--were dancing up the chimney, while the candles in theirstrange abiding-places had burned an inch or two lower. But his eyeswere for Max, and for Max alone, and with the same intense stealth hecrept across the room to the bare table and solemnly unburdened himselfof a variety of parcels and a cheery-looking bottle done up in redtissue-paper.
Max still slept, and, drawing a sigh of satisfaction, he proceeded withthe task he had set himself--the task of providing supper after themanner of the genius in the fairy-tale.
First plates were brought from the new-filled kitchen shelves; thenknives were found, and forks; then the mysterious-looking parcelsdelivered up their contents--a cold roast chicken, all brown and goldenas it had left the oven, cheese, butter, crisp rolls, and crisp redradishes, finally a little basket piled with fruit.
It was a very simple meal, but Blake smiled to himself as he set out thedishes to the best advantage, placed the wine reverentially in thecentre to crown the feast, and at last, still tiptoeing, came round tothe back of Max's chair and laid his hands over the closed eyes.
"Guess!" he said, as if to a child.
Max gave a little cry, in which surprise and fear struggled forsupremacy; then he sprang to his feet, shaking off the imprisoninghands.
"What is it? Who is it?" Then he laughed shamefacedly, and, turning, sawthe spread table.
"Oh, _mon ami_!" His eyes opened wide, and he gazed from the food toBlake. "_Mon ami!_ You have done this for me while I was sleeping!"
His gaze was eloquent even beyond his words, and Blake, finding no fitanswer, began to move about the room, collecting the vases that held thecandles and carrying them to the table.
"_Mon ami!_"
"Nonsense, boy! It's little enough I do, goodness knows!"
"This is a great deal."
"Nonsense! What is it? You were fagged and I was fresh! And now Isuppose I must knock the head off this bottle, for we haven't acorkscrew. The Lord lend me a steady hand, for 'twould be a pity if Ishook the wine!"
He carried the bottle to the fireplace, and with considerable dexteritycracked 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 Maxlaughing.
"We have one glass--in my room."
"Bravo! Fly for it!"
Max laughed again--his sleep, his surprise, his gratitude equallyrouted; he flew, in literal obedience to the command, across the littlehall and, groping his way to the dressing-table, searched about in thedarkness for the tumbler.
"Ned! A candle!"
Blake brought the desired light, and together they discovered thecoveted glass. Max seized upon it eagerly, but as he delivered it up aswift exclamation escaped him:
"My God! How dirty I am! Regard my hands!"
"What does it matter! You can wash after you've eaten."
"Oh, but no! I pay more compliment to your feast."
"Very well, then! We may hope to sup in an hour or so. I know you andthe making of your toilet!"
"Impertinent!" Max caught him by the arm and pushed him, laughing,toward the door. "Go back and complete the table. I will delay butfour--three--two minutes in the making of myself clean."
"But the table is complete--"
"It is incomplete, _mon ami_; it is without flowers."
Before Blake's objections could form into new words, he found himselfin the little hallway with the bedroom door closed upon him, and, beinga philosopher, he shook his head contentedly and walked back into the_salon_, where he obediently brought to light the bowl of jonquils thatwas still perfuming the air from its dark corner, and set it carefullybetween the wine and the fruit.
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p; Ten minutes and more slipped by, during which, still philosophical, hewalked slowly round and round the table, straightening a candle here,altering a dish there, humming all the while in a not unmusical voicethe song from _Louise_.
He was dwelling fondly upon the line
"Depuis le jour ou je me suis donnee"--
when the door of the bedroom was flung open as by a gale, and at thedoor of the _salon_ appeared Max--his dark hair falling over hisforehead, a comb in one hand, a brush in the other.
"_Mon cher!_ a hundred--a thousand apologies for being so long! It isall the fault of my hair!"
Blake looked at him across the candles. "Indeed I wouldn't bother aboutmy hair, if I were you! A century of brushing wouldn't make itrespectable."
"Why not?"
"Look at the length of it!"
"Ah, but that pleases me!"
Blake shook his head in mock seriousness. "These artists! Theseartists!" he murmured to himself.
Max laughed, threw the comb and brush from him into some unseen cornerof the hall, and ran across the _salon_.
"You are very ill-mannered! I shall box your ears!"
Blake threw himself into an attitude of defence. "I'd ask nothingbetter!" he cried. "Come on! Just come on!"
Max, laughing and excited, took a step forward, then paused as at somearresting thought.
"Afraid? Oh, _la, la_! Afraid?"
"Afraid!" The boy tossed the word back scornfully, but his face flushedand he made no advance.
"You'll have to, now, you know!"
Max retreated.
"Oh, no, you don't!" With a quick, gay laugh, touched with the fire ofbattle, Blake followed; but ere he could come to close quarters, the boyhad dodged and, lithe and swift as a cat, was round the table.
"No! No!" he cried, with a little gasp, a little sob of excitement thatcaught the breath. "No! No! I demand grace. A starving man, _mon ami_! Astarving man! It is not fair."
He knew his adversary. Blake's hands dropped to his sides, he yieldedwith a laugh.
"Very well! Very well! Another time I'll see what you're made of. Andnow 'we'll exterminate the bread-stuffs,' as McCutcheon would say!"
And laughing, jesting--content in the moment for the moment's sake--theysat down to their first serious meal in the little _salon_.
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