Max, Page 2

  CHAPTER II

  'Journeys end in lovers' meeting.' The phrase conjures a picture. Thecourt-yard of some inn, glowing ripe in the tints of the settingsun--open doors--an ancient coach disgorging its passengers! This--or,perhaps, some quay alive with sound and movement--cries of command invarying tongues--crowded gangways--rigging massed against the sky--allthe paraphernalia of romance and travel. But the real journey--thejourney of adventure itself--is frequently another matter: often gray,often loverless, often demanding from the secret soul of the adventurerspirit and inspiration, lest the blood turn cold in sick dismay, and thebrain cloud under its weight of nostalgia.

  Paris in the dawn of a wet day is a sorry sight; the Gare du Nord in thehours of early morning is a place of infinite gloom. As the northexpress thundered into its recesses, waking strange and hollow echoes,the long sweep of the platform brought a shudder to more than one tiredmind. A string of sleepy porters--gray silhouettes against a graybackground--was the only sign of life. Colors there were none, loversthere were none, Parisian joy of living there was not one vestige.

  Paris! The murmur crept through the train, stirring the weariest tomechanical action. Paris! Heads were thrust through the windows, wrapsand hand-bags passed out to the shadowy, mysterious porters who receivedthem in a silence born of the godless hour and the penetrating, chillingdampness of the atmosphere.

  In the carriage fifth or sixth from the engine the threefellow-travellers greeted the arrival in the orthodox way. The tallAmerican stretched his long limbs and groaned wearily as he got hisbelongings together, while the dapper young Englishman thrust his headout of the window and withdrew it as rapidly.

  "Beastly morning!" he announced. "Paris on a wet day is like a womanwith draggled skirts."

  "Get rid of our belongings first, Billy, make epigrams after!" The mancalled Blake pushed him quietly aside and, stepping to the window,dropped a leather bag into the hands of a porter.

  Of the three, his manner was the most indifferent, his temper the mostunruffled; and of the three, he alone remembered the fourth occupant ofthe carriage, for, being relieved of his bag, he turned with his handstill upon the window, and his eyes sought the youthful figure drawnwith lonely isolation into its corner.

  "Do you want a porter?" he asked.

  The question was unexpected. The boy started and sat straighter in hisseat. For one moment he seemed to sway between two impulses, then, witha new determination, he looked straight at his questioner with his cleareyes.

  "No," he said, speaking slowly and with a grave deliberation, "I do notneed a porter. I have no luggage--but this." He rose, as if to prove thetruth of his declaration, and lifted his valise from the rack.

  It was a simple movement, simple as the question and answer that hadpreceded it, but it held interest for Blake. He could not have analyzedthe impression, but something in the boy's air touched him, something inthe young figure so plainly clad, so aloof, stood out with sharp appealin the grayness and unreality of the dawn. A feeling that was neithercuriosity nor pity, and yet savored of both, urged him to furtherspeech. As his two companions, anxious to be free of the train, passedout into the corridor, he glanced once more at the slight figure, at thehigh Russian boots, the long overcoat, the fur cap drawn down over thedark hair.

  "Look here! you aren't alone in Paris?" he asked in the easy, impersonalway that spoke his nationality. "You have people--friends to meet you?"

  For an instant the look that had possessed the boy's face during thejourney--the look of suspicion akin to fear--leaped up, but on themoment it was conquered. The well-poised head was thrown back, and againthe eyes met Blake's in a deliberate gaze.

  "Why do you ask, monsieur?"

  The words were clipped, the tone proud and a little cold.

  Another man might have hesitated to reply truthfully, but Blake was anIrishman and used to self-expression.

  "I ask," he said, simply, "because you are so young."

  A new expression--a new daring--swept the boy's mobile face. A spirit ofraillery gleamed in his eyes, and he smiled for the first time.

  "How old, monsieur?"

  The question, the smile touched Blake anew. He laughed involuntarilywith a sudden sense of friendliness.

  "Sixteen?--seventeen?"

  The boy, still smiling, shook his head.

  "Guess again, monsieur."

  Blake's interest flashed out. Here, in the gray station, in this damphour of dawn, he had touched something magnetic--some force that drewand held him. A quality intangible and indescribable seemed to emanatefrom this unknown boy, some strange radiance of vitality that floodedhis surroundings as with sunshine.

  "Eighteen, then!" He laughed once more, with a curious sense ofpleasure.

  But from the corridor outside a slow voice was borne back on the damp,close air, forbidding further parley.

  "Blake! I say, Blake! For the Lord's sake, get a move on!"

  The spell was broken, the moment of companionship passed. Blake driftedtoward the carriage door, the boy following.

  Outside in the corridor they were sucked into the stream of departingpassengers--that odd medley of men and women, unadorned, jaded,careless, that a night train disgorges. Slowly, step by step, theprocession made its way, each unit that composed it glancinginvoluntarily into the empty carriages that he passed--the carriagesthat, in their dimmed light, their airlessness, their _debris_ ofpapers, seemed to be a reflection of his own exhausted condition; then agust of chilly air told of the outer world, and one by one thetravellers slid through the narrow doorway, each instinctively pausingto brace himself against the biting cold before stepping down upon theplatform.

  At last it was Blake's turn. He, too, paused; then he, too, took thefinal plunge, shivered, glanced at where McCutcheon and the Englishmanwere talking to their porters, then turned to watch the Russian boyswing himself lithely down from the high step of the train.

  All about him was the consciousness of the awakening crowd, conveyed bythe jostling of elbows, the deepening hum of voices.

  "Look here!" he said again, in response to his original impulse. "Youhave somebody to meet you?"

  The boy glanced up, a secret emotion burning in his eyes. "No,monsieur."

  "You are quite alone?"

  "Yes, monsieur."

  "And why are you here--to play or to work?"

  The question was unwarrantable, but an Irishman can dispense withwarranty in a manner unknown to other men. It had ever been Blake's wayto ask what he desired to know.

  This time no offence showed itself in the boy's face.

  "In part to work, in part to play, monsieur," he answered, gravely; "inpart to learn life."

  The reply was strange to Blake's ears--strange in its grave sincerity,stranger still in its quiet fearlessness.

  "But you are such a child!" he cried, impulsively. "You--"

  Imperceptibly the slight figure stiffened, the proud look flashed againinto the eyes.

  "Many thanks, monsieur, but I am older than you think--and veryindependent. I have the honor monsieur, to wish you good-bye."

  The tone was absolutely courteous, but it was final. He bowed with easyforeign grace, raised his fur cap, and, turning, swung down the platformand out of sight.

  Blake stood watching him--watching until the high head, the straightshoulders, the lithe, swinging body were but a memory; then he turnedwith a start, as a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and the pleasant,prosaic voice of the young Englishman assailed his ears.

  "My dear chap, what in the world are you doing? Not day-dreaming withthe mercury at thirty?"

  "Foolish--but I was!" Blake answered, calmly. "I was watching that youngRussian stalk away into the unknown, and I was wondering--"

  "What?"

  He smiled a little cynically. "I was wondering, Billy, what type ofindividual and what particular process fate will choose to let him breakhimself upon."

  * * * * *

  The most splendid moment
of an adventure is not always the moment offulfilment, not even the moment of conception, but the moment of firstaccomplishment, when the adventurer deliberately sets his face towardthe new road, knowing that his boats are burned.

  Nothing could have been less inspiring than the dreary Gare du Nord,nothing less inviting than the glimpse of Paris to be caught through itsopen doorways; but had the whole world laughed him a welcome, the youngRussian's step could not have been more elastic, his courage higher, hisheart more ready to pulse to the quick march of his thoughts, as hestrode down the gray platform and out into the open.

  In the open he paused to study his surroundings. As yet the full tale ofpassengers had not emerged, and only an occasional wayfarer, devoid ofbaggage as himself, had fared forth into the gloom. Outside, theartificial light of the station ceased to do battle with nature, andonly an occasional street lamp gave challenge to the gloomy dawn. Thedamp mist that all night had enshrouded Paris still clung about thestreets like ragged grave-clothes, and at the edge of the pavement halfa dozen _fiacres_ were ranged in a melancholy line, the wretched horsesdozing as they stood, the drivers huddled into their fur capes andnumbed by the clinging cold. Everywhere was darkness and chill and thelistless misery of a winter dawn, when vitality is at its lowest ebb andthe passions of man are sunk in lethargy.

  Only a creature infinitely young could have held firm in face of suchdejection, only eyes as alert and wakeful as those of this wayfaring boycould possibly have looked undaunted at the shabby streets with theirflaunting travesty of joy exhibited in the dripping awnings of thedeserted _cafes_, that offered _Biere, Billard_, and yet again _Biere_to an impassive world.

  But the eyes were wakeful, the soul of the adventurer was infinitelyyoung. He looked at it all with a certain steadfastness that seemed tosay, "Yes, I see you! You are hideous, slatternly, unfriendly; butthrough all the disguise I recognize you. Through the mask I trace thefeatures--subtle, alluring, fascinating. You are Paris! Paris!"

  The idea quickened action as a draught of wine might quicken thought;his hand involuntarily tightened upon his valise, his body braced itselfafresh, and, as if resigning himself finally to chance, that deity lovedof all true adventurers, he stepped from the pavement into the greasyroadway.

  Seeing him move, a loafer, crouching in the shadow of the station, slunkreluctantly into the open and offered to procure him a _fiacre_; but theboy's shake of the head was determined, and, crossing the road, heturned to the left, gazing up with eager interest at the many hotelsthat rub shoulders in that uninteresting region.

  One after the other he reviewed and rejected them, moving onward withthe excitement that is born of absolute uncertainty. Onward he went,without pause, until the pavement was intersected by a side-street, andpeering up through the misty light he read the legend, "rue deDunkerque."

  Rue de Dunkerque! It conveyed nothing to his mind. But was he notseeking the unknown? Again his head went up, again his shouldersstiffened, and, smiling to himself at some secret thought, he swunground the corner and plunged into the unexplored.

  Half way down the rue de Dunkerque stands the Hotel Railleux. It is atall and narrow house, somewhat dirty and entirely undistinguished;there is nothing to recommend it save perhaps an air of privacy, acertain insignificance that wedges it between the surrounding buildingsin a manner tempting to one anxious to avoid his fellows.

  This quality it was that caught the boy's attention. He paused andstudied the Hotel Railleux with an attention that he had denied to thelarge and common hostelries that front the station. He looked at it longand meditatively, then very slowly and thoughtfully he walked to the endof the street. At the end of the street he turned, his mind made up,and, hurrying back, went straight into the hall of the hotel as thoughthirsting to pledge himself irrevocably to his decision.

  It is impossible for the sensible individual to see romance in thisentry into a third-rate Parisian hotel--to see daring or to seedanger--but the boy's heart was beating fast as the glass door swungbehind him, and his tongue was dry as he stepped into the little officeon the right of the poor hall.

  Here in the office the story of the streets was repeated. A dingygas-jet shed a faint light, as though reluctantly awake; behind a smallpartition, half counter, half desk, a wan and sleepy--looking man wascowering over a stove. As the boy entered he looked up uncertainly, thenhe rose and smiled, for your Parisian is exhausted indeed when he failsto conjure up a smile.

  "Good-day, monsieur!"

  The words were a travesty in view of the miserable dawn, but the boytook heart. There was greeting in the tone. He moistened his lips, whichfelt dry as his tongue in his momentary nervousness, then he steppedcloser to the counter.

  "Good-day, monsieur! I require a bedroom."

  "A bedroom? But certainly, monsieur!" The shrewd though tired eyes ofthe man passed over his visitor's clothes and the valise in his hand."We can give you a most excellent room at"--he raised his eyebrows intactful hesitation--"at five francs?"

  The boy's eyes opened in genuine, instant surprise. "For so little?" heexclaimed. Then, covered with confusion, he reddened furiously andstammered, "For--for so much, I mean?"

  The man in the office was all smooth, politeness, anxious to cover aforeigner's slip of speech. 'But certainly, no! If five francs was morethan monsieur cared to pay, then for three francs there was a mostcharming, a most agreeable room on the fifth floor. True, it did notlook upon the street, but then perhaps monsieur preferred quiet. Ifmonsieur would give himself the trouble of mounting--'

  Monsieur, still confused by his own mistake, and nervously anxious toinsist upon his position, repeated again that five francs was out of thequestion, and that, without giving himself the trouble of mounting, hewould then and there decide upon the agreeable and quiet room at threefrancs.

  'But certainly! It was understood!' The guardian of the office, nowfully awake and aroused to interest in this princely transaction,disappeared from behind the counter into the back regions of the hotel,and could be heard calling "Jean! Jean!" in a high, insistent tone.

  After some moments of silence he returned, followed by a large andamiable individual in a dirty blue blouse, who had apparently but latelyarisen from sleep.

  'Now if monsieur would intrust his baggage to the valet--'

  The guardian of the office took a key from a nail in the wall. Jeanstepped forward, pleased and self-conscious, and took the valise fromthe boy's hand. Then all three smiled and bowed.

  It was one of those foolish little comedies--utterly unnecessary,curiously pleasant--that occur twenty times a day in Parisian life.Involuntarily the adventurer's heart warmed to the pallid clerk and tothe dirty hotel porter. He had arrived here without luggage, shabby,unrecommended, yet no princely compatriot of his own could have beenmade more sensible of welcome. He stepped out of the office and followedhis guide, conscious that, if only for an instant, Paris had lifted hermask and smiled--the radiant, anticipated smile.

  There is no such unnecessary luxury as a lift in the Hotel Railleux. Atthe back of the hall the spiral staircase begins its steep ascent,mounting to unimagined heights.

  Jean, breathing audibly, led the way, pausing at every landing to assuremonsieur that the ascent was nothing--a mere nothing, and that beforeanother thought could pass through monsieur's mind the fifth floor wouldbe reached. The boy followed, climbing and ever climbing, until themeagre hand-rail appeared to lengthen into dream-like coils, and thethreadbare, drab-hued carpet, with its vivid red border, to assume theproportions of some confusing scroll.

  But at length the end was reached, and Jean, beaming and triumphant,announced their goal.

  'This way! If monsieur would have the goodness to take two steps in thisdirection!' He dived into a long, dark corridor, illuminated by a singleflickering gas-jet, twin brother to that which lighted the office below;and, still eager, still breathing loudly, he ushered the guest towardwhat in his humble soul he believed to be the luxurious, the impressivebedroom supplied by the Hote
l Railleux at three francs a night.

  The boy looked about him as he passed down the dim corridor. Apparentlyhe and Jean alone were awake in this gloomy maze of closed doors andsleeping passages. One sign of humanity--and one alone--came to hissenses with a suggestion of sordid drama. On the floor, at the closeddoor of one of the rooms, stood a battered black tray on which reposedan empty champagne bottle and two soiled glasses.

  Life! His quick imagination conjured a picture--conjured and shrank fromit. He turned away with a sense of sharp disgust and almost ran down thecorridor to where Jean was fitting a key into the door of hisprospective bedroom.

  "The room, monsieur!" Jean's voice was full of pride. He had lived forten years in the Hotel Railleux, working as six men and six womentogether would not have worked in the fashionable quarter, and he hadnever been shaken in his belief that Paris held no more invitinghostelry.

  The boy obediently stepped forward into the tiny apartment, in which abig wooden bedstead loomed out of all proportion. His movements werehasty, as though he desired to escape from some impression; his voice,when he spoke, was vague.

  "Very nice! Very nice!" he said. "And--and what is the view?"

  "The view? Oh, but monsieur will like the view!" Jean stepped to thewindow, drew back the heavy cretonne curtains, and threw open the longwindow, admitting a breath of chilling cold. "The court-yard! See,monsieur! The court-yard!"

  The boy came forward into the biting air and gazed down into thewell-like depths of gloom, at the bottom of which could be discerned asmall flagged court, ornamented by a couple of dwarfed and frost-bittentrees in painted tubs.

  Jean, watchful of the visitor's face, broke forth anew withinexhaustible tact.

  'It was a fine view--monsieur would admit that! But, naturally, it wasnot the street! Now No. 107, across the corridor--at five francs--?'

  Monsieur was aroused. "No! No! certainly not. The view was of noconsequence. The bed looked all right."

  'The bed!' Here Jean spoke with deep feeling. 'There was no better bedin Paris. Had he not himself put clean sheets on it that day?' He turnedfrom the window, and with the hand of an expert displayed the beautiesof the sparse blankets, the cotton sheets, and the mountainous doublemattress.

  'But monsieur was anxious to retire? Doubtless monsieur would sleepuntil _dejeuner_? A most excellent _dejeuner_ was served in the_salle-a-manger_ on the second floor.'

  The words flowed forth in a stream--agreeable, monotonous, reminiscentof the far-away province that had long ago bred this good creature.Suddenly the exhaustion of the long journey, the sleep so long deniedrose about the traveller like a misty vapor. He longed for solitude; hepined for rest.

  "I am satisfied with everything," he said, abruptly. "Leave me. I havenot been in bed for two nights."

  A flood of sympathy overspread Jean's face: he threw up his hands. "Poorboy! Poor boy! What a terrible thing!" With a touch as light as awoman's his work-worn fingers smoothed the pillow invitingly, and,tiptoeing to the door, he disappeared in tactful and silentcomprehension of the situation.

  Vaguely the boy was conscious of his departure. A great lassitude wasfalling upon him, making him value the isolation of his three-franc roomwith a deep gratitude, turning his gaze toward the unpromising bed withan indescribable longing. Mechanically, as the door closed, he threwoff his heavy overcoat, kicked off his high boots, discarded his coatand trousers, and, without waiting to search in his bag for anothergarment, stepped into bed and curled himself up in the flannel shirt hehad worn all day.

  The bed was uncomfortable with that extraordinary discomfort of theold-fashioned French bed, that feels as though it were padded withcotton wool of indescribable heaviness. The sheets were coarse, themultitudinous clothes were weighty without being warm, but no prince onhis bed of roses ever rested with more luxury of repose than did thisyoung adventurer as, drawing the blankets to his chin, he stretched hislimbs with the slow, delicious enjoyment born of long travel.

  Jean had drawn the cretonne curtains, but through their chinks streaksof bluish, shadowy light presaged the coming day. From his lair the boylooked out at these ghostly fingers of the morning, then his eyestravelled round the dark room until at last they rested upon his clotheslying, as he had thrown them, on the floor. He looked at them--theboots, the coat and trousers, the heavy overcoat--and suddenly someimperative thought banished sleep from his eyes. He sat up in bed; heshivered as the cold air nipped his shoulder; then, unhesitatingly, heslipped from between the sheets and slid out upon the floor.

  The room was small; the clothes lay within an arm's length. He shiveredagain, stooped, and, picking up the overcoat, dived his hand into thedeep pocket, and drew forth the packet that he had guarded sotenaciously in the train.

  For a moment he stood looking at it in the blue light of the dawn--athick brown packet, seven or eight inches long, tied with string andsealed. Once or twice he looked at it, seemingly lost in reflection;once or twice he turned it about in his hand as if to make certain itwas intact; then, with a deep sigh indicative of satisfaction, hestepped back into bed, slipped the packet under his pillow and, with hisfingers faithfully enlaced in the string, fell asleep.