CHAPTER XV
That night the pencil-sketch obsessed the brain of Max. Tossing wakefulupon his bed, he saw the pageant of the future--touched the robe, allsaffron and silver, of the goddess Inspiration--and, with the brushesand colors of imagination, gained to the gateway of fame.
It was a wild night that spurred to action, and with the coming of theday, Blake's prophecy was fulfilled. Before the Montmartre shops wereopen, he was seeking the materials of his art; and long ere the sun washigh, he was back in the room that had once been the bedroom of M.Salas, surrounded by the disarray of the inspired moment.
The room was small but lofty, and a fine light made his work possible.The inevitable wood fire crackled on the hearth, but otherwise theatmosphere spoke rigidly of toil.
Zeal, endeavor, ambition in its youngest, divinest form--these were thesuggestions dormant in the strewn canvases, the tall easel, the barewalls; and none who were to know, or who had known, Max--none destinedto kindle to the flame of his personality, ever viewed him in morecharacteristic guise than he appeared on that February morning clad inhis painting smock, the lock of hair falling over his forehead, hishands trembling with excitement, as he executed the first bold line thatmeant the birth of his idea.
So remarkable, so characteristic was the pose that chance, ever with aneye to effect, ordained it an observer, for scarcely had he lost himselfin the work than the door of his studio opened with a Bohemian lack ofceremony, and his neighbor, Jacqueline--dressed in a blue print dressthat matched her eyes--came smiling into the room.
"Good-day, monsieur!"
He glowered with complete unreserve.
"You are displeased, monsieur; I intrude?"
"You do, mademoiselle."
The tone was uncompromising, but Jacqueline came on, softly movingnearer and nearer to the easel, looking from the canvas to Max and backagain to the canvas in an amused, secret fashion comprehensible toherself alone.
"You feel like my poor Lucien, when an interruption offers itself to hiswork; but, as I say, _ennui_ is the price of admiration! Is it not so,Monsieur Max?"
She leaned her blonde head to one side, and looked at him with the naivequality of meditation that so became her.
"Do not permit me to disturb you, monsieur! Continue working."
"Thank you, mademoiselle!" A flicker of irony was observable in the toneand, with exaggerated zeal, he returned to his task.
The girl came softly behind him, looking over his shoulder.
"What is the picture to be, monsieur?"
"It is an idea caught last night in a _cabaret_. It would not interestyou."
"And why not?"
Max shrugged his shoulders, and went on blocking in his picture.
"Because it is a psychological study--a side-issue of existence.Nothing to do with the crude facts of life."
"Oh!" Jacqueline drew in her breath softly. "I am only interested, then,in the crude facts? How do you arrive at that conclusion, monsieur?"
"By observation, mademoiselle."
"And what have you observed?"
"It is difficult to say--in words. In a picture I would put it likethis--a blue sky, a meadow of rank green grass, a stream full offorget-me-nots, and a girl bending over it, with eyes the color of theflowers. Conventionality would compel me to call it _Spring_ or_Youth_!" He spoke fast and he spoke contemptuously.
She watched him, her head still characteristically drooping, the littlewise smile hovering about her lips.
"I comprehend!" she murmured to herself. "Monsieur is very worldly-wise.Monsieur has discovered that there is--how shall I say?--less atmospherein a blue sky than in a gray one?"
Max glanced round at her. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he wasbeing laughed at, but her clear azure eyes met his innocently, and hermouth was guiltless of smiles.
"I have had a sufficiency of blue sky," he said, and returned to hiswork.
"One is liable to think that, monsieur, until the rain falls!"
"So you doubt the endurance of my philosophy?"
She shrugged; she extended her pretty hands expressively.
"Monsieur is young!"
The words exasperated Max. Again it had arisen--the old argument. Theanger smouldering in his heart since the girl's invasion flamed tospeech.
"I could wish that the world was less ready with that opinion,mademoiselle! It knows very little of what it says."
"Possibly, monsieur! but you admit that--that you are scarcely aged."There was a quiver now about the pretty lips, a hint of a laugh in theeyes.
"Mademoiselle,"--he wheeled round with unexpected vehemence,--"I shouldlike you, to tell me exactly how old you think I am."
"You mean it, monsieur?"
"I mean it. Is it seventeen--or is it sixteen?" His voice was edged withirony.
"It is neither, monsieur!" Jacqueline was very demure now, her eyessought the floor. "Granted your full permission, monsieur, I wouldsay--"
"You would say--?"
"I would say"--she flashed a daring look at him and instantly droppedher eyes again--"I would say that you have twenty-four, if nottwenty-five years!"
The confession came in a little rush of speech, and as it left her lipsshe moved toward the door, contemplating flight.
An immense surprise clouded Max's mind, a surprise that brought theblood mantling to his face and sent his words forth with a stammeringindecision.
"Twenty-four--twenty-five! What gave you that idea?"
"Oh, monsieur, it is simple! It came to me by observation!"
Leaving Max still red, still confused, she slipped out of the roomnoiselessly as she had come, and as the door closed he heard the faint,exasperating sound of a light little laugh.
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