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Max

<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2> <div class="first">IT seemed to Max, as the door closed behind him and he found himself upon the bare landing, that he had dreamed and was awake again; for in truth the ménage into which he had been permitted to peep seemed more the fabric of a dream than part of the new, inconsequent life he had elected to make his own. A curious halo of the ideal—of things set above the corroding touch of time or fortune—surrounded the old man forgotten of his world, and the patient wife, content in her one frail possession.</div> He felt without comprehending that here was some precious essence, some elixir of life, secret as it was priceless; and for an instant a shadow, a doubt, a question crossed his happy egoism. But the sharp, inquisitive voice 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 to Blake—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 me who I shall have for my neighbor." As they moved toward the head of the stairs, he indicated the second door on the landing—the door innocent of name, bell, or knocker. "For neighbor, monsieur? Ah, I comprehend! That is the appartement of M. Lucien Cartel, a musician; but his playing will not disturb you, for the 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 the hours of ten and eleven?" "He plays constantly, monsieur, but of last night I am not sure. Last night was eventful for M. Cartel! Last night—But I speak too much!" She glanced at Max, obviously desiring the question that would unloose her tongue. But Max was not alert for gossip, he was listening instead to a faint sound, long drawn out and fine as a silver thread, that was slipping 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. Cartel did play last night. I remember now. I was finishing the hem of a black dress for Madame Dévet, of the rue des Abesses, when my husband came in at eleven o'clock. He walked in, leaving the door open—the door I came through this morning at your knock—and he stood there, blowing upon his fingers, 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, and who should come flying into the hallway but M. Cartel himself. He paused for an instant, seeing our door open, and he, too, was laughing. 'What a fellow that Charpentier is!' he cried to my husband. 'His Louise has kept me until I am all but late for my rendezvous!' And he ran out through the hall, singing as he went. That was all I saw of M. Cartel until 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 violin had dwindled into silence, and Max abruptly remembered that he had an appointment with Blake on the Boulevard des Italiens. "You are very good, madame, but it is necessary that I go! When can I see the concierge?" "The concierge, monsieur, is my husband. He will be here for a certainty 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 the window 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 perfectly expressionless. Then, apparently without reason, he laughed aloud and ran 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, she retraced her steps and knocked with her knuckles on the door of M. Lucien Cartel. Meanwhile, Max finished his descent of the stairs, his feet gliding with pleasant ease down the polished oak steps, his hand slipping smoothly down the polished banister. Already the joy of the free life was singing in his veins, already in spirit he was an inmate of this house of many histories. He darted across the hall, picturing in imagination the last night's haste of M. Cartel of the violin. What would 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, as though dinner was not a certainty on every day of the seven? He laughed a little to himself light-heartedly, and gained the street door with unnecessary, heedless speed—gained it on the moment that another pedestrian, moving swiftly as himself, entered, bringing him to a sharp consciousness of the moment. Incomer and outgoer each drew back a step, each laughed, each tendered an 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 Müller, mademoiselle?" She smiled, and in her smile there was a little touch of pride—an indefinite pride that glowed about her slender, youthful person like an aura. "Monsieur, I live in this house—now." "Now?" Sudden curiosity fired him. "Ah, you do not comprehend! Last night was sad, monsieur; to-day—" She stopped. "To-day, mademoiselle?" For a second the clear, childish blue of her eyes flashed like a glimpse of spring skies. "It is too difficult, monsieur—the explanation. It is as I say. Last night was dark; to-day the sun shines!" She laughed, displaying the dazzling whiteness of her teeth. "And you, monsieur?" she added, gayly. "You also live here in the rue Müller? Yes? No?" She bent her head prettily, first to one side, then to the other, as she put her questions. "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 as light, as joyous, as inconsequent as a bird. And Max passed out into the sharp, crisp air, sensible that the troubling memories of the Bal Tarbarin had in some strange manner been effaced—that inadvertently he had 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 was wheeling down into the heart of Paris. It was nearing the hour of déjeuner, the boulevards were already filling, and the cold, crisp air seemed to vibrate to the bustle of hurrying human creatures seriously absorbed in the thought of food. He smiled to himself at this humorously grave homage offered up so untiringly, so zealously to the appetite, as he made his way between the long line of tables at the restaurant where he had appointed to meet Blake. Like all else that appertains to the Frenchman, its very frankness disarmed criticism or disgust. He looked at the beaming faces, smiling up from the wide-spread napkins in perfect accord with life, and again, 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 of pleasure, he turned, saw Blake, and made his way through the closely ranged chairs and the throng of hurrying waiters. "Well, boy! Dissipation suits you, it seems! You're looking well. Just out of bed, I suppose?" Max laughed. Words were brimming to his lips, until he knew not how to speak. "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 on the table, and looked full at Blake. "May I speak?" "From now till Doomsday! Garçon!" But Max laid an impulsive hand upon his arm. "Wait! Do not order for one moment! I must tell you!" He gave a little gasp of excitement. "I have seen an appartement in the rue Müller—an appartement with a charming salon opening upon a balcony, a nice little bedroom, another room with an excellent painting light, a kitchen with 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 of days for a suite of hotel rooms! I am mad since I have seen the place—quite mad!" He laughed again so excitedly that the people at the neighboring table stared. "I can subscribe to that!" said Blake, satirically. "Listen! Listen! You have not heard; you have not understood. I have found an appartement in the rue Müller, at Montmartre—the appartement I had set my heart upon, the place where I can live and paint and make my success!" Blake stared at him in silence. "Yes! Yes!" Max insisted. "And it is all quite settled. And you are coming 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 his pride, but to-day his reply was to look direct into Blake's face with fascinating audacity. "Then you will leave me to contend alone against who can say what villain—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 begun to sprout? I'm not such a fool, my boy! I knew well enough you'd soon be flying 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 made a little discovery all by myself! Is it not like a—" He stopped, laughed, reddened as though he had made some slip, and then on the instant 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 attending waiter. "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 I was angry, where's the wonder? A man doesn't pick up a quaint little book 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 little book because—because the wind came and fluttered the pages?" Once again Max spoke softly, with the softness that broke so alluringly across the reckless independence of look and gesture. A sudden consciousness of this fascination—a sudden annoyance with himself that he should yield to it—touched Blake. "I can't go with you to Montmartre," he said, abruptly. "It's McCutcheon's last day in Paris, and I promised to give him the afternoon." "Who? The long, spider man who disliked me?" "A spider who weaves big webs, I can tell you! You ought to be more respectful to your elders." "And I ought to have a studio across the river? Oh, Monsieur Ned, order some food, for the love of God! I am perishing of hunger." Blake ordered the déjeuner, and talked a great deal upon indifferent subjects while they ate; but each felt jarred, each felt disappointed, though neither could exactly have said why. At last, with a certain relief, they finished their coffee and made a way between the long lines of tables to the door. There they halted for a moment in mutual hesitation, and at last the boy held 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 a considerable pause. "I thought to drive, because—" Without permitting him to complete the sentence Blake crossed the footpath and hailed a passing cab. "Come on! In you get!" Max obeyed uncertainly, and as he took his seat a sudden fear of loss crushed 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 André de Sarte!' He leaned out of the window. "Monsieur Ned! Monsieur Ned! I shall see you again? This is not good-bye?" Blake turned; he laid his hand on the door of the cab and suddenly smiled his attractive, humorous smile. "Little fool!" he said. "Didn't you know I was coming with you?" <hr style='width: 65%;'> <h2>PART II</h2> <hr style='width: 65%;'> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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