“And is not that—­pardon me!—­a little improvident?”

Max laughed.  “Probably, madame!  But if it demanded my last franc I would give that last franc with an open heart, so greatly do I desire the place.”

The quiet eyes of the woman softened to a gentle comprehension.

“You are an artist, monsieur.”

The color leaped into the boy’s face, his eyes flashed with triumph.

“Madame, how did you guess?”

“It is no guessing, monsieur.  You tell me with every word.”

“Ah, madame, I thank you!” With a charming, swift grace he bent and caught her hand.  “And, madame”—­he hesitated naively and colored again.  “Madame, I would like to say that when my home is here it will be my care never to desecrate the atmosphere you have created.”  He bent still lower, the sun caressing his crisp, dark hair, and very lightly his lips touched her fingers.

“Adieu, madame!”

“Adieu, monsieur!”

CHAPTER XI

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 menage 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.

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?”