CHAPTER VII

It trembled and hung upon the air—­that brief word “fame”—­as it has so often hung and trembled in the streets and in the cafes of Paris, winged with the exuberance of youth, the faith in his mystic star that abides in the heart of the artist.  In that moment of confession the individuality of the boy was submerged in his ambition; he belonged to no country, to no sex.  He was inspiration made manifest—­the flame fanned into being by the winds of the universe, blown as those winds listed.

The Irishman looked into his burning face, and a curious unnamable feeling thrilled him—­a sense of enthusiasm, of profound sadness, of poignant envy.

“You’re not only seeking the greatest thing in the world,” he said, slowly, “but the cruellest.  Failure may be cruel, but success is crueller still.  The gods are usurers, you know; they lend to mortals, but they exact a desperate interest.”

The boy’s hand, still lying unconsciously in his, trembled again.

“I know that; but it does not frighten me.”

“A challenge?  Take care!  The gods are always listening.”

“I know that.  I am not afraid.”

“So be it, then!  I’ll watch the duel.  But what road do you follow—­music? literature?  Art of some sort, of course; you are artist all over.”

Again the fire leaped to the boy’s eyes.  He snatched his hand away in quick excitement.

“Look!  I will show you!”

With the swiftness of lightning he whipped a pencil from his pocket, pushed aside his coffee-cup, and began to draw upon the marble-topped table as though his life depended upon his speed.

For ten minutes he worked feverishly, his face intensely earnest, his head bent over his task, a lock of dark hair drooping across his forehead; then he looked up, throwing himself back in his chair and gazing up at his companion with the egotistical triumph—­the intense, childish satisfaction of the artist in the first flush of accomplished work.

“Look!  Look, now, at this!”

The Irishman laughed sympathetically; the artist, as belonging to a race apart, was known by him and liked, but he rose and came round the table with a certain scepticism.  Life had taught him that temperament and output are different things.

He leaned over the boy’s chair; then suddenly he laid his hand on his shoulder and gripped it, his own face lighting up.

“Why, boy!” he cried.  “This is clever—­clever—­clever!  I’m a Dutchman, if this isn’t the real thing!  Why on earth didn’t you tell me you could do it?”

The boy laughed in sheer delight and, bending over the table, added a lingering touch or two to his work—­a rough expressive sketch of himself standing back from an easel, a palette in his left hand, a brush in his right, his hair unkempt, his whole attitude comically suggestive of an artist in a moment of delirious oblivion.  It was the curt, abrupt expression of a mood, but there was cleverness, distinction, humor in every line.