<h2>CHAPTER XIV</h2>
<br/>
<div class="first">THE meal was over; the candles had burned low;
in the quiet, warm room the sense of repose was dominant.</div>
<p>Blake took out his cigarette-case and passed it across the
table, watching Max with lazy interest as he chose a cigarette and
lighted it at a candle-flame.</p>
<p>"Happy?"</p>
<p>"Absolutely!"</p>
<p>He had wanted in a vague, subconscious way to see the flash of
the white teeth, the quick, familiar lifting of the boy's glance,
and now he smiled as a man secretly satisfied.</p>
<p>"I know just exactly what you're feeling," he said, as Max threw
himself back in his chair and inhaled a first deep breath of smoke.
"You feel that that little white curl from the end of your
cigarette is the last puff of smoke from the boats you have burned;
and that, with your own four walls around you, you can snap your
fingers at the world. I know! God, don't I know!"</p>
<p>Max smiled slowly, watching the tip of his cigarette. "Yes, you
know! That is the beautiful thing about you."</p>
<p>The appreciation warmed Blake's soul as the good red wine had
warmed his blood.</p>
<p>"I believe I do—with you. I believe I could tell you
precisely your thoughts at this present moment." With a pleasant,
meditative action, he drew a cigar from his case.</p>
<p>"Tell me!"</p>
<p>"Well, first of all, there's the great contentment—the
sense of a definite step. You're strong enough to like
finality."</p>
<p>"I hope I am. I think I am."</p>
<p>"You are! Not a doubt of it! But what I mean is that you've left
an old world for a new one; and no matter how exciting the voyaging
through space may have been, you like to feel your feet on terra
firma."</p>
<p>Max leaned forward eagerly. "That is quite true! And I like it
because now I can open my eyes, and say to myself, 'not to-morrow,
but to-day I live.' I have put—how do you say in
English?—my hand upon the plough."</p>
<p>"Exactly! The plough—or the palette—it's all the
same! You're set to it now."</p>
<p>The boy's eyes flashed in the candle-light, and for an instant
something of the fierce emotion that can lash the Russian calm, as
a gale lashes the sea, troubled his young face.</p>
<p>"You comprehend—absolutely! I have made my choice; I have
come to it out of many situations. I would die now rather than I
would fail."</p>
<p>In his voice was a suppressed fervor akin to some harsh or cruel
emotion; and to Blake, watching and listening, there floated the
hot echo of stories in which Russians had acted strange parts with
a resolve, a callousness incomprehensible to other races.</p>
<p>"When you talk like that, boy, I could almost go back to that
first night, and adopt McCutcheon's theory. You might feasibly be a
revolutionary with those blazing eyes."</p>
<p>Max laughed, coming back to the moment.</p>
<p>"Only revolutionary in my own cause! I fight myself for myself.
You take my meaning?"</p>
<p>"Not in the very least! But I accept your statement; I like its
brave ring. You are your own romance."</p>
<p>"I am my own romance."</p>
<p>"Let's drink to it, then! Your romance—whatever it may
be!" He raised the half-empty tumbler, drank a little, and handed
it across the table.</p>
<p>Max laughed and drank as well. "My romance—whatever it may
be!"</p>
<p>"Whatever it may be! And now for that breath of air we promised
ourselves! It's close on ten o'clock."</p>
<p>So the meal ended; coats were found, candles blown out, and a
last proprietary inspection of the <i>appartement</i> made by the
aid of matches.</p>
<p>They ran down the long, smooth staircase, and, stepping into the
quiet, starlit rue Müller, linked arms and began their descent
upon Paris with as much ease, as nice a familiarity as though life
for both of them had been passed in the shadow of the
Sacré-Coeur.</p>
<p>On the Boulevard de Clichy the usual confusion of lights and
humanity greeted them like welcoming arms, and with the same
agreeable nonchalance they yielded to the embrace.</p>
<p>Conscious of no definite purpose, they turned to the right and
began to breast the human tide with eyes carelessly critical of the
thronging faces, ears heedlessly open to the many tangled sounds of
street life. Outside the theatres, flaunting posters made pools of
color; in the roadway, the network of traffic surged and
intermingled; from amid the flat house fronts, at every few hundred
yards, some <i>cabaret</i> broke upon the sight in crude confusion
of scenic painting and electric light; while dominating all—a
monument to the power of tradition—the sails of the
time-honored mill sprang red and glaring from a background of quiet
sky.</p>
<p>But the two, walking arm-in-arm, had no glance for revolving
mill-sails or vivid advertisement, and presently Blake halted
before a house that, but for a certain prosperity of stained-glass
window and dark-green paint, would have seemed a common wine
shop.</p>
<p>"Max," he said, "do you remember the famous night when we went
to the Bal Tabarin, and saw much wine spilled? It was here I was
first going to bring you then."</p>
<p>"Here?"</p>
<p>"This very place! 'Tis one of the old artistic <i>cabarets</i>
of Paris—grown a bit too big for its shoes now, like the rest
of Montmartre, but still retaining a flavor. What do you say to
turning in?"</p>
<p>"I say 'yes.'"</p>
<p>"Come along, then! I hope 'twon't disappoint you! There's a good
deal of rubbish here, but a scattering of grain among the chaff.
Ah, messieurs! Good-evening!"</p>
<p>This last was addressed with cordiality to a knot of men
gathered inside the doorway of the <i>cabaret</i>, all of whom rose
politely from their chairs at Blake's entry.</p>
<p>Max, peering curiously through the tobacco smoke that veiled the
place, received an impression of a room—rather, of a
shop—possessed of tables, chairs, a small circular counter
where glasses and bottles winked and gleamed, and of walls hung
with a truly Parisian collection of impressionist studies and
clever caricatures.</p>
<p>"Monsieur is interested?"</p>
<p>He turned, to meet the eyes of the host, a stout and affable
Frenchman, who by right divine held first place among the little
group of loungers; but before he could frame a reply, Blake
answered for him.</p>
<p>"He is an artist, M. Fruvier, and finds all life
interesting."</p>
<p>M. Fruvier bowed with much subtle comprehension.</p>
<p>"Then possibly it will intrigue him to step inside, and hear our
little concert. We are about to commence."</p>
<p>Blake nodded in silent acquiescence; the knot of men bowed
quickly and stiffly; and Max found himself being led across the
bare, sawdust-strewn floor into an inner and larger room—a
holy of holies—where the light was dimmer and the air more
cool.</p>
<p>Here, a scattered audience was assembled—a score or so of
individuals, sober of dress, unenthusiastic of demeanor, sitting in
twos and threes, sipping beer or liqueurs and waiting for the
concert to begin.</p>
<p>Max's eyes wandered over this collection of people while Blake
sought for seats, but his glance and his interest passed on almost
immediately to the walls, where, as in the outer room, pictures
ranged from floor to ceiling.</p>
<p>The seats were chosen; a white-aproned waiter claimed an order,
and Blake gave one as if from habit.</p>
<p>"And now, boy, a cigarette?"</p>
<p>"If you please—a cigarette!" Max's voice had the quick
note, his eyes the swift light that spoke excitement. "<i>Mon
ami</i>, I like this place! I like it! And I wonder who painted
that?" He indicated a picture that hung upon the wall beside
them.</p>
<p>"I don't know! Some chap who used to frequent the place in his
unknown days. We can ask Fruvier."</p>
<p>"It is clever."</p>
<p>"It is."</p>
<p>"It has imagination."</p>
<p>They both looked at the picture—a study in black and
white, showing an attic room, with a <i>pierrette</i> seated
disconsolate upon a bed, a <i>pierrot</i> gazing through a
window.</p>
<p>"<i>Pierrot</i> seeking the moon, eh?"</p>
<p>Max nodded.</p>
<p>"Yes. It has imagination—and also technique!"</p>
<p>But their criticism was interrupted; a piano was opened at the
farther end of the room by an individual affecting the unkempt hair
and velveteen coat of past Bohemianism, who seated himself and ran
his fingers over the keys as though he alone occupied the room.</p>
<p>At this very informal signal, the curtain rose upon a
ridiculously small stage, and an insignificant, nervous-looking man
stepped toward the footlights at the same moment that M. Fruvier
and his followers entered and seated themselves in a row, their
backs to the wall.</p>
<p>This appearance of the proprietor was the sole meed of interest
offered to the singer, the audience continuing to smoke, to sip,
even to peruse the evening papers with stoic indifference.</p>
<p>The song began—a long and unamusing ditty, topical in its
points. Here and there a smile showed that it did not pass unheard,
and as the singer disappeared a faint <i>roulade</i> of applause
came from the back of the room.</p>
<p>Max turned to his companion.</p>
<p>"But I believed the Parisians to be all excitement! What an
audience! Like the dead!"</p>
<p>"They are excitable when something excites them."</p>
<p>"Then they dislike this song?"</p>
<p>"Oh no! 'Not bad!' they'd say if you asked them; but they're not
here to be excited—they're not here to waste enthusiasm. Like
ourselves, they have worked and have eaten, and are enjoying an
hour's repose. The song is part of the hour—as inevitable as
the <i>bock</i> and the cigar, and you can't expect a smoker to wax
eloquent over a familiar weed."</p>
<p>"How strange! How interesting!" The boy looked round the
scattered groups that formed to his young eyes another side-show in
the vast theatre of life.</p>
<p>No one heeded his interest. The women, young and elderly alike,
conversed with their escorts and sipped their liqueurs with
absorbed quiet; the men smoked and drank, talked or read aloud
little paragraphs from their papers with whispering relish.</p>
<p>Then again the piano tinkled, and the same singer appeared, to
sing another song almost identical with the first; but now his
nervousness was less, he won a laugh or two for his political
innuendoes, and when he finished Max clapped his hands, and Blake
laughingly followed suit.</p>
<p>"He's a new man," he said; "this is probably his first
night."</p>
<p>"His first? Oh, poor creature! What a <i>début</i>! Clap
your hands again!"</p>
<p>"Poor creature indeed! He's delighted with himself. Many a
better man has been driven from the stage after his first verse.
Your Paris can be cruel."</p>
<p>Their example had been tepidly followed, and the singer, beaming
under the relaxed tension of his nerves, was smiling and bowing
before entering upon the perils of a third song.</p>
<p>"And what do they pay him?"</p>
<p>"Oh, a couple of francs a song! The fees will grow with his
success."</p>
<p>Max gasped. "A couple of francs! Oh, my God!"</p>
<p>"What do you expect? We're not in Eldorado."</p>
<p>"But a couple of francs!"</p>
<p>"Ssh! Don't talk anarchy. Here come the powers that be!"</p>
<p>M. Fruvier was coming toward them, making his way between the
seats with many bows, many apologetic smiles.</p>
<p>"Well, messieurs, and what of our new one? Not a Vagot,
perhaps"—mentioning a famous <i>comique</i> whose star had
risen in the firmament of the <i>cabaret</i>—"not a Vagot,
perhaps, but not bad! Not bad?"</p>
<p>"Not bad!" acquiesced Blake.</p>
<p>"Very good!" added Max, pondering hotly upon the wage of the
singer, and regarding M. Fruvier with doubtful glance.</p>
<p>"No! No! Not bad!" reiterated that gentleman, as if viewing the
performance from a wholly impersonal standpoint. "Not bad!" And,
still bowing, still smiling, he wandered on to exchange opinions
with his other patrons, while a new singer appeared, a man whose
vast proportions and round red face looked truly absurd upon the
tiny stage, but whose merry eye and instant friendly nod gained him
a murmur of welcome.</p>
<p>With the appearance of the new-comer a little stir of life was
felt, and in obedience to some impulse of his own, Max took a
sketch-book and a pencil from his pocket, and sat forward in his
seat, with glance roving round and round the room, pencil poised
above the paper.</p>
<p>"I heard this fellow here twelve years ago," said Blake. "He and
Vagot were young men then. Shows the odd lie of things in this
world! There's Vagot making his thousands of francs a week next
door at the Moulin Rouge, and this poor fat clown still where he
was!"</p>
<p>Max did not reply. His head was bent, his face flushed; he was
sketching with a furious haste.</p>
<p>"What are you doing?"</p>
<p>Still no reply. The song rolled on; and Blake, leaning back in
his seat, smoking with leisurely enjoyment, felt for perhaps the
first time in his life the sense of complete
companionship—that subtle condition of mind so continuously
craved, so rarely found, so instantly recognized.</p>
<p>"Boy," he said at last, "let me come up sometimes when you're
messing with your paints? I won't bother you."</p>
<p>Max looked up and nodded—a mere flash of a look, but one
that conveyed sufficient; and the two relapsed again into
silence.</p>
<p>At the end of an hour the boy raised his head, tossed a lock of
hair out of his eyes, and closed his sketch-book.</p>
<p>Blake met his eyes comprehendingly. "Will we go?"</p>
<p>"Yes. But one more glance at this black-and-white!"</p>
<p>He jumped up, unembarrassed, unconscious of self, and looked at
the picture closely; then stepped back and looked at it from a
little distance, eyes half closed, head critically upon one
side.</p>
<p>"Satisfied?" Blake rose more slowly.</p>
<p>"Perfectly. It is clever—this! It has imagination!" He
slipped his arm confidingly through Blake's, and together they made
a way to the door.</p>
<p>A new song began as they stepped into the outer room—the
tinkle of the piano came thinly across the smoke-laden air. Blake
paused and looked back.</p>
<p>"Well, and what do you think of it? A trifle dull, perhaps, but
still—"</p>
<p>"Dull? But no! Never! I could work here. Others have worked
here. It is in the atmosphere—- the desire to create."</p>
<p>They passed into the street, Blake raising his hat to a stout
lady, presumably Madame Fruvier, who sat wedged behind the counter,
Max glancing greedily at the bold rough sketches, the brilliantly
Parisian caricatures adorning the walls.</p>
<p>"It is in the atmosphere! One breathes it!" he said again, as
they walked down the cool, lighted boulevard. "I feel it to-night
as I have not felt it before—the artist's Paris. <i>Mon
ami</i>"—he raised a glowing face—"<i>mon ami</i>, tell
me something! Do you think I shall succeed? Do you think I possess
a spark of the great fire—a spark ever so tiny?"</p>
<p>His earnestness was almost comical. He stopped and arraigned his
companion, regardless of interested glances and passing smiles.</p>
<p>"Ned, tell me! Tell me! Have you faith in me?"</p>
<p>Blake looked into the feverishly bright eyes, and a swift
conviction possessed him.</p>
<p>"I know this, boy, whatever you do, you'll do it finely! More I
cannot say."</p>
<p>Max fell silent, and they proceeded on their way, each
preoccupied with his own thoughts. At the turning to the heights
Blake paused.</p>
<p>"I'll say good-bye here! I have letters to write to-night; but
I'll be up to-morrow to spirit you off to lunch. I won't come too
early, for I know what you'll be doing all the morning."</p>
<p>Max laughed, coming back out of his dream. "And what is it I
shall be doing all the morning?"</p>
<p>"Why, carting canvases and paint tubes, and God knows what, up
those steps till your back is broken, and then settling down with
your temper and your ambition at fever heat to begin the great
picture at the most inopportune moment in the world! Think I don't
know you?"</p>
<p>Max laughed again, but more softly.</p>
<p>"<i>Mon ami!</i>"</p>
<p>"I'm right, eh? That sketch at the <i>cabaret</i> is meant to
grow?"</p>
<p>Instantly Max was diffident. "Oh, I am not so sure! It is only
an idea. It may not arrive at anything."</p>
<p>"Let's have a look?"</p>
<p>Max's hand went slowly toward his pocket. "I am not sure that I
like it; it is not my theory of life. It's more of your
theory—it is ironical."</p>
<p>"Let's see!"</p>
<p>The sketch-book came reluctantly to light, and as Max opened it,
the two stepped close to a street lamp.</p>
<p>"As I tell you, it is ironical. If it becomes a picture I shall
give it this name—<i>The Failure</i>." He handed it to Blake,
leaning close and peering over his shoulder in nervous anxiety.</p>
<p>"Understand, it is but an idea! I have put no work into it."</p>
<p>Blake held the book up to the light, his observant face grave
and interested.</p>
<p>"What a clever little beggar you are!" he said at length.</p>
<p>Max glowed at the words, and instantly his tongue was
loosed.</p>
<p>"Ah, <i>mon cher</i>, but it is only a sketch! That
atmosphere—that dim, smoky atmosphere—is so difficult
with the pencil. The audience is, of course, but suggested; all
that I really attempted was the singer—the failure with the
merry eyes."</p>
<p>"And well you've caught him too, by gad! One would think you had
seen the antithesis—Vagot, the success, long and lean and
yellow, the unhappiest-looking man you ever saw."</p>
<p>"Ah, but you must not say that!" cried Max unexpectedly. "I told
you it was not my theory. To me success is life, failure is death!
This is but a reflected impression of yours—- an impression
of irony!" He took the sketch-book from Blake's hands and closed it
sharply; then, to ask pardon for his little outburst, he
smiled.</p>
<p>"<i>Mon cher</i>! Forgive me! Come to-morrow, and we will see if
day has thrown new light."</p>
<p>They shook hands.</p>
<p>"All right—to-morrow! Good-night, boy—and good
luck!"</p>
<p>"Good-night!"</p>
<p>Max stood to watch the tall figure disappear into the tangle of
traffic, then with a light step, a light heart, a light sense of
propitiated fate, he began the climb to his home.</p>
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