Part 2 (1/2)

With the coveted admittance into the Salon, recognition came speedily to the two chums. They made a triumphal entry into a real studio in the Montparna.s.se Quarter, clients came, and the room became a station of honor among the young and enthusiastic of the Quarter.

Rantoul began to appear in society, besieged with the invitations that his Southern aristocracy and the romance of his success procured him.

”You go out too much,” said Herkimer to him, with a fearful growl. ”What the deuce do you want with society, anyhow? Keep away from it. You've nothing to do with it.”

”What do I do? I go out once a week,” said Rantoul, whistling pleasantly.

”Once is too often. What do you want to become, a parlor celebrity?

Society _c'est l'ennemie_. You ought to hate it.”

”I do.”

”Humph!” said Herkimer, eying him across his sputtering clay pipe. ”Get this idea of people out of your head. Shut yourself up in a hole, work.

What's society, anyhow? A lot of bored people who want you to amuse them. I don't approve. Better marry that pretty girl in the creamery.

She'll wors.h.i.+p you as a G.o.d, make you comfortable. That's all you need from the world.”

”Marry her yourself; she'll sew and cook for you,” said Rantoul, with perfect good humor.

”I'm in no danger,” said Herkimer, curtly; ”you are.”

”What!”

”You'll see.”

”Listen, you old grumbler,” said Rantoul, seriously. ”If I go into society, it is to see the hollowness of it all--”

”Yes, yes.”

”To know what I rebel against--”

”Of course.”

”To appreciate the freedom of the life I have--”

”Faker!”

”To have the benefit of contrasts, light and shade. You think I am not a rebel. My dear boy, I am ten times as big a rebel as I was. Do you know what I'd do with society?”

He began a tirade in the famous muscular Rantoul style, overturning creeds and castes, reorganizing republics and empires, while Herkimer, grumbling to himself, began to scold the model, who sleepily received the brunt of his ill humor.

In the second year of his success Rantoul, quite by accident, met a girl in her teens named Tina Glover, only daughter of Cyrus Glover, a man of millions, self-made. The first time their eyes met and lingered, by the mysterious chemistry of the pa.s.sions Rantoul fell desperately in love with this little slip of a girl, who scarcely reached to his shoulder; who, on her part, instantly made up her mind that she had found the husband she intended to have. Two weeks later they were engaged.

She was seventeen, scarcely more than a child, with clear, blue eyes that seemed too large for her body, very timid and appealing. It is true she seldom expressed an opinion, but she listened to every one with a flattering smile, and the reputations of brilliant talkers have been built on less. She had a way of pa.s.sing her two arms about Rantoul's great one and clinging to him in a weak, dependent way that was quite charming.

When Cyrus Glover was informed that his daughter intended to marry a dauber in paints, he started for Paris on ten hours' notice. But Mrs.

Glover who was just as resolved on social conquests as Glover was in controlling the plate-gla.s.s field, went down to meet him at the boat, and by the time the train entered the St. Lazare Station, he had been completely disciplined and brought to understand that a painter was one thing and that a Rantoul, who happened to paint, was quite another. When he had known Rantoul a week; and listened open-mouthed to his eloquent schemes for reordering the universe, and the arts in particular, he was willing to swear that he was one of the geniuses of the world.

The wedding took place shortly, and Cyrus Glover gave the bridegroom a check for $100,000, ”so that he wouldn't have to be bothering his wife for pocketmoney.” Herkimer was the best man, and the Quarter attended in force, with much outward enthusiasm. The bride and groom departed for a two-year's trip around the world, that Rantoul might inspire himself with the treasures of Italy, Greece, India, and j.a.pan.