Part 55 (1/2)

Just how it came to be a settled affair neither De Vilmarte nor Hazelton could have told. Now an exhibition occurred for which De Vilmarte needed a picture; now Hazelton dogged by his need of money would come to him.

Hazelton's wife was always ailing. Her beauty and her disposition had been undermined by ill-health and self-indulgence, and he was one of those men temperamentally in debt and always on the edge of being sued or dispossessed.

But in Hazelton's brain a fantastic and mad sense of rivalry grew. He had transferred his affection to his darker mood. Every notice of De Vilmarte's name rankled in his mind. De Vilmarte's growing vogue infuriated him. He felt that he must wring from the critics and the public the recognition that was his due so that this child of his, born of his irony and his despair, and that had been so faithful to him in spite of abuse, might be crowned. Just what had happened to both of them they realized after the opening of the _Salon_ next year.

”Take care,” Hazelton had warned De Vilmarte, ”that they do not hang you better than they do me. That I will not have.” He had said it jokingly; but while De Vilmarte's exhibit was ma.s.sed, and he had won the second medal, Hazelton's was scattered, and he had but one picture on the line; worse still, the critics gave Hazelton formal praise while they acclaimed De Vilmarte as the most promising of the younger school of landscape-painters.

De Vilmarte sought out Hazelton, full of a sense of apology. He found him gazing morosely into his gla.s.s of absinthe like one seeing unpleasant visions.

”It is really too strong,” Raoul said. ”I am sorry.”

”It's not your fault,” Hazelton replied, listlessly. ”It's got to stop, though!” He did not look up, but he felt the shock that traveled through De Vilmarte's well-knit body. ”It's got to stop!” he repeated. ”It's too strong, as you say.”

There was a long silence, a silence full of gravity, full of despair, the silence of a man who has suddenly and unexpectedly heard his death sentence, a silence in whose duration De Vilmarte saw his life as it was. He had begun this as a joke, after his first agonized indecision, and now suddenly he saw not only his mother but himself involved, and the honor of his name. He waited for Hazelton to say something-anything, but Hazelton was chasing chimeras in the depths of his pale drink. As usual, his resistance was the greater. He sat hunched and red, his black hair framing his truculent face, unmindful of Raoul.

”It has gone beyond a joke,” was what Raoul finally said.

”That's just it,” Hazelton agreed. ”My G.o.d! Think how they have hung you-think how they have hung me. Where do I get off? Have I got to work for nothing all my life?”

”The recognition-you know what that means-it means nothing!” cried Raoul.

Hazelton did not answer.

”But I can't-confess now!” Raoul's anguish dragged it out of him. ”I could afford to be a _farceur_-I cannot afford to be a cheat.”

Hazelton looked at him suddenly. Then he laughed. ”Ha! ha! The little birds!” he said. ”They stepped in the lime and they gummed up their little feet, didn't they?” He lifted up his own small foot, which was well shod in American shoes. ”Poor little bird! Poor little gummed feet!” He laughed immoderately.

Disgust and shame had their will with Raoul.

Hazelton was enchanted with his own similes, and, unmindful of his friend's mood, he placed his small hand next Raoul's, which was nervous and brown, the hand of a horseman.

”Can you see the handcuffs linking us?” he chuckled. ”'Linked for Life'

or 'The Critics' Revenge.'” He laughed again, but there was bitterness in his mirth. ”We should have told before,” he muttered. ”I suppose it is too late now. I cannot blame you or myself, but, by G.o.d! I'm not going to paint for you all my days. Why should I? We had better stop it, you know.” He drank deeply. ”Courage, my boy!” he cried, setting down his gla.s.s. ”I will have the courage to starve my wife if you will have the courage to disappoint your mother.”

They left it this way.

When De Vilmarte again entered Hazelton's studio, Hazelton barked at him ungraciously: ”Ho! So you are back!”

”Yes,” said Raoul, ”I am back.” He stood leaning upon his cane, very elegant, very correct, a hint of austerity about him that vanished charmingly under the suns.h.i.+ne of his smile.

Hazelton continued painting. ”Well,” he said, without turning around, ”you have not come, I suppose, for the pleasure of my company; but let me tell you in advance that I have no time to do any painting for you. I am not your _bonne a tout faire_.”

By Hazelton's tone De Vilmarte realized that he was ready to capitulate; he wanted to be urged, and he desired to make it as disagreeable as he could because he was not in a position to send De Vilmarte to the devil any more than De Vilmarte could follow his instinct and leave Hazelton to come crawling to him-for there was always the chance that Hazelton might be lucky and would not come crawling.

”It's your mother again, I suppose,” said Hazelton, ungraciously.

De Vilmarte grew white around his mouth; he grasped his cane until his hand was bloodless. ”Some one unfortunately told her that they were urging me to have a private exhibition, and her heart is set upon it.”

”There are a number of things upon which my wife's heart is set,”

Hazelton admitted after a pause, during which he painted with delicate deliberation and exquisite surety while, fascinated and full of envy, De Vilmarte watched the delicate hand that seemed to have an independent existence of its own that seemed to be the utterance of some other and different personality than that which was expressed in Hazelton's body.