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It was a wild night that spurred to action, and with the coming of the day, Blake's prophecy was fulfilled. Before the Montmartre shops were open, he was seeking the materials of his art; and long ere the sun was high, 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 the atmosphere spoke rigidly of toil.
Zeal, endeavor, ambition in its youngest, divinest form—these were the suggestions dormant in the strewn canvases, the tall easel, the bare walls; and none who were to know, or who had known, Max—none destined to kindle to the flame of his personality, ever viewed him in more characteristic guise than he appeared on that February morning clad in his painting smock, the lock of hair falling over his forehead, his hands trembling with excitement, as he executed the first bold line that meant the birth of his idea.
So remarkable, so characteristic was the pose that chance, ever with an eye to effect, ordained it an observer, for scarcely had he lost himself in the work than the door of his studio opened with a Bohemian lack of ceremony, and his neighbor, Jacqueline—dressed in a blue print dress that 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 moving nearer and nearer to the easel, looking from the canvas to Max and back again to the canvas in an amused, secret fashion comprehensible to herself alone.
"You feel like my poor Lucien, when an interruption offers itself to his work; 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 naïve quality 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 tone and, 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 interest you."
"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 like this—a blue sky, a meadow of rank green grass, a stream full of forget-me-nots, and a girl bending over it, with eyes the color of the flowers. 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 little wise 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 atmosphere in a blue sky than in a gray one?"
Max glanced round at her. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he was being laughed at, but her clear azure eyes met his innocently, and her mouth was guiltless of smiles.
"I have had a sufficiency of blue sky," he said, and returned to his work.
"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. The anger smouldering in his heart since the girl's invasion flamed to speech.
"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 the eyes.
"Mademoiselle,"—he wheeled round with unexpected vehemence,—"I should like 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 with irony.
"It is neither, monsieur!" Jacqueline was very demure now, her eyes sought the floor. "Granted your full permission, monsieur, I would say—"
"You would say—?"
"I would say"—she flashed a daring look at him and instantly dropped her eyes again—"I would say that you have twenty-four, if not twenty-five years!"
The confession came in a little rush of speech, and as it left her lips she moved toward the door, contemplating flight.
An immense surprise clouded Max's mind, a surprise that brought the blood mantling to his face and sent his words forth with a stammering indecision.
"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 room noiselessly as she had come, and as the door closed he heard the faint, exasperating sound of a light little laugh.