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<h2>CHAPTER XVII</h2> <div class="first">THERE is impetus, if not necessarily inspiration in a goading thought, and Max returned to his interrupted task with a zeal almost in excess of his protestations. He worked with vigor—with an exuberant daring that seemed to suggest that the creation of his picture was rather the creation of a mental narcotic than the expression of an idea.</div> He had given rein to sentiment in the moment with Blake, and now he was applying the curb, working incessantly—- never pausing to speak—never casting a glance at the corner where his companion was smoking and dreaming over the fire. To the casual observer it might have seemed a scene of ideal comradeship; yet in the minds of the comrades there lurked an uneasiness, an uncertainty not lightly to be placed—not easily to be clothed in words. A certain warmth was stirring in Blake's heart, coupled with a certain wonder at his sudden discovery of the depth of the boy's regard; while in the boy's own soul a tumult of feelings ran riot. Shame burned him that he should have confessed himself; amazement seared him that the confession had been there to make. A bewildering annoyance filled him—a first doubting of the ego he was cherishing with so fine a care. It is indeed a black moment when an egoist doubts himself; it is as if the god within the temple became self-conscious; more, it is as if the god rent down the veil before the shrine and showed himself a thing of clay to his astonished worshippers. The mind of Max was a complex study as he worked with his new-found vehemence, expressing or crushing a thought with each bold stroke. He prided himself upon his powers of self-analysis; and, being possessed as well of honesty and of a measure of common sense, the mental picture that confronted him was scarcely pleasant seeing. Doubt of himself—of his own omnipotence—- had assailed him; and, being young, being spoiled of the world, it found expression in bitter resentment. Having continued his onslaught upon the canvas until midday was close at hand, he suddenly astonished the unoffending Blake by flinging his charcoal from him to the furthest end of the room, where it broke rudely against the spotless wall-paper. "God bless my soul!" Blake turned, to see an angry figure striding to the window, his hair ruffled, his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets. "What in God's name is the matter with you?" There was no answer and, being a wise man, he did not press the point. Presently, as he expected, the boyish figure wheeled round. "I cannot work. It is all bad! All wrong!" He rose slowly and began to walk toward the easel, but with a cry the boy ran forward and intercepted him. "No! No! No! It is bad, I tell you—you must not see. Look! This is what I shall do. This!" He turned and, swift as lightning, snapped up a knife, and before Blake could find a gesture or a word, ripped his canvas from end to end. "Upon my word! Well, upon my word! There's an extravagant young devil! Why, in the name of God, would you destroy your canvas like that?" "Why? Because, my friend, I am I! I do not work again upon a thing that I have marred!" His voice shook, trembling between excited laughter and tears. Blake looked at him. "Bless my soul, if he isn't crying! Come here to me! You're a baby!" But Max turned on him, so furious that the hot anger in his eyes scorched the tears that hung there. "A baby? This much a baby, that I love my work so truly that I have set it upon an altar and made it my religion! And when I find, as to-day, that it fails me I am damned—my soul is lost!" "And why does it fail you—to-day?" "I do not know!" "Is that the truth?" "Yes, it is." "Are you perfectly sure? Are you perfectly sure that 'tisn't I—my presence here—?" "You?" Max withered him with a scorn meant for himself as well. "You rate yourself high, my friend, and you imagine my work a very trivial thing!" "Nonsense! Plenty of artists must have solitude." "Plenty of fools! An artist is engrossed in his art so perfectly that when he stands before his canvas no world exists but the world of his imagination. Do you suppose me to be affected because you sit somewhere in the background, smoking over the fire? Oh, no! I trust I have more capacity to concentrate!" He shrugged his shoulders to the ears; he raised his eyebrows in the very elaboration of indifference. Blake, hot as he in pride or anger, caught sudden fire. "Upon my soul, you're damned complimentary! I think, if you have no objection, I'll be wishing you good-day!" He picked up his hat, and strode to the door. <center><ANTIMG src="images/ill154.jpg" width-obs="400" height-obs="601" alt=""LOOK! THIS IS WHAT I SHALL DO. THIS!""></center> <h5>"LOOK! THIS IS WHAT I SHALL DO. THIS!"</h5> The action was so abrupt, the offence so real, that it sobered Max. With a sudden collapse of pride, he wheeled round. "Ned! Oh, Ned!" But the banging of the outer door was his only answer; and he drew back, his face fallen to a sudden blankness of expression, his hand going out as if for support to the tattered canvas. Minutes passed—how many or how few he made no attempt to reckon—then a tap fell on the door and his blood leaped, leaped and dropped back to a sick pulsation of disappointment, as the door opened and Jacqueline's fair head appeared. For an instant a fierce resentment at this new intrusion fired him, then the absorbing need for human sympathy welled up, drowning all else. "Mademoiselle," he cried out, "I am the most unhappy person in all the world; I have tried to make a picture and failed, and I have quarrelled with my best friend!" Jacqueline nodded sagely. "That, M. Max, is my excuse for intruding. Of the picture, of course, I know nothing"—she shrugged expressively—"but of the quarrel I understand all—having passed M. Blake upon the stairs!" At any other moment Max would have resented in swift and explicit terms this probing of his private concerns; but the soreness at his heart was too acute to permit of pride. "Then you are sorry for me, mademoiselle?" "Yes, monsieur!" "Because of my spoiled picture?" Waywardness flickered up momentarily. "No, monsieur!" "Then why?" Jacqueline glanced up swiftly, then dropped her eyes. "Because, monsieur—being but a woman—I say to myself 'life is long, and other pictures may be painted; but with love—or friendship—'" "Mademoiselle, that is sufficient! You are charming—you are sympathetic—- but, like many others, you place too great a value upon those words 'love' and 'friendship.' It is like this! If I quarrel with my friend it is doubtless sad, but it only affects myself; if, on the contrary, I paint a bad picture I am making a blot upon a beautiful world!" "And what of the heart, monsieur? May there not be sad stains upon the heart—even if no eyes see them?" "Now, mademoiselle, you are talking sentiment!" "And you, monsieur, are materialistic?" For a second a flash of mischief showed in the blue eyes. Max stiffened his shoulders; made brave show to hide the detestable ache in his soul. "Yes, mademoiselle," he said. "I think, without pride, I may claim to see life wholly, without idealization." Quite unexpectedly Jacqueline clapped her hands and laughed, stepping close to him with an engaging air of mystery. "Then all is well! I have a physic for all your ills!" He looked distrustful. "A physic?" "This, monsieur—that you put aside the great sorrow of your picture, and the little sorrow of your friend—and step across and partake of déjeuner with Lucien and me. A very special déjeuner, I assure you; no less than a poulet bonne femme, cooked with a care—" She threw out her hands in an ecstasy of expression, a portrayal of the artless greed that had more than once brought a smile to the boy's lips. But this time no amusement was called up; disgust rose strong within him and, accompanying it, a certainty that were Jacqueline's chicken to be laid before him, he must assuredly choke with the first morsel. One does not eat when one has failed in one's art—or quarrelled with one's best friend! "Mademoiselle," he said, unsteadily, "you are kind—and I am not without appreciation. But to-day I have no appetite—food does not call to me. Doubtless, there are days when M. Cartel cannot eat." He strove to force a laugh. Jacqueline looked humorously grave. "When Lucien cannot work, monsieur, he eats the more! It is only on the days when work flows from him that I am compelled to drag him to the table—those days or, perhaps, the days—" She stopped discreetly. "What days, mademoiselle?" For the gratification of a curiosity he condemned, Max put the question. "Oh, monsieur, when some little affair arises upon which he and I dispute—when some cloud, as it were, darkens the sun." She continued to look down demurely; then quickly she looked up again. "But I waste your time! And, besides, I have not finished what I would say." "Oh, mademoiselle, I beg—" "It is not of the poulet that I would speak, monsieur! I understand that artists are not all alike; and that, whereas bad work gives Lucien an appetite, it gives you a disgust! Still, you are a philosopher, and will allow others to eat, even if you will not eat yourself." Max looked bewildered. "Good!" Jacqueline clapped her hands again softly. "I knew I would find success! I said I would find success!" "But, mademoiselle, I do not understand." "No, monsieur! Neither did M. Blake, when I met him upon the stairs, and told him of my poulet. He also, it seems, had lost his appetite. Your picture must have been truly bad!" She discreetly toyed with her belt during the accepted space of time in which a brain can conceive—a heart leap—to an overmastering joy; then she looked again at Max. "It is a little idea of my own, monsieur, that you and M. Édouard should make the acquaintance of my Lucien. M. Édouard already consents; I hope that you, monsieur—" For answer, Max caught her hand. From that moment he loved her—her prettiness, her mischief, her humanity. "Mademoiselle! I do not understand—and I do understand!" "But you will come, monsieur?" "I will eat your chicken, mademoiselle—even to the bones!" <hr style='width: 65%;'> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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