“And well you’ve caught him too, by gad!  One would think you had seen the antithesis—­Vagot, the success, long and lean and yellow, the unhappiest-looking man you ever saw.”

“Ah, but you must not say that!” cried Max unexpectedly.  “I told you it was not my theory.  To me success is life, failure is death!  This is but a reflected impression of yours—–­ an impression of irony!” He took the sketch-book from Blake’s hands and closed it sharply; then, to ask pardon for his little outburst, he smiled.

“Mon cher!  Forgive me!  Come to-morrow, and we will see if day has thrown new light.”

They shook hands.

“All right—­to-morrow!  Good-night, boy—­and good luck!”

“Good-night!”

Max stood to watch the tall figure disappear into the tangle of traffic, then with a light step, a light heart, a light sense of propitiated fate, he began the climb to his home.

CHAPTER XV

That night the pencil-sketch obsessed the brain of Max.  Tossing wakeful upon his bed, he saw the pageant of the future—­touched the robe, all saffron and silver, of the goddess Inspiration—­and, with the brushes and colors of imagination, gained to the gateway of fame.

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.