Part 49 (1/2)

”Rainsford,” whispered Potowski, laying his hand on Antony's knee, ”what do you t'ink, my friend?” The tears were raining down his mobile face; he sighed. ”_Arrt_,” he said in his mellow whisper, ”is only the expression of the feeling, the beautiful expression of the feeling. That is the meaning of all _arrt_.”

The big red curtain fell slowly and the three men, poet, singer and sculptor, kept their seats as though still under the spell of Dumas and unable to break it.

”Tony,” said Dearborn, as they went out together, ”I am going to burn up all four acts.”

CHAPTER XV

The middle of January arrived, and he thought Cedersholm would have come by that time and supposed that they would be off for Rome.

The study of his mother was accepted by the jury for the exhibition in the Rue de Sevres, and Fairfax went on the opening day, saw his name in the catalogue, and his study on the red pedestal made a dark mellow note amongst the marbles. He stood with the crowd and listened with beating heart to the comments of the public. He watched the long-haired Bohemians and the worldly people, the Philistine and the elite as they surged, a little sea of criticism, approval, praise and blame, through the rooms.

”Pas mal, ca.” ”Here is a study that is worth looking at.” ”By whom is this?”

And each time that he heard his name read aloud--Thomas Rainsford--he was jealous of it for Antony. It seemed a sacrilege, a treachery. He wandered about, looking at the other exhibits, but could not keep away from his own, and came back timidly, happily, to stand by the figure of his mother in her chair. There was much peace in the little work of art, much repose. He seemed to see himself again a boy, as he had been that day when she asked for the cherries and he had run off to climb for them--and had gone limping ever since. She had sat languidly with her book that day, as she sat now, immortalized by her son in clay.

Some one came up and touched his arm. ”Bonjour, Rainsford.” It was Barye, his chief. He had been looking at the group behind the sculptor.

He said briefly: ”Je vous felicite, monsieur.” He smiled on his journeyman from under s.h.a.ggy brows. ”They will talk about you in the _Figaro_. C'est exquis.”

Fairfax thanked him and watched Barye's face as the master scrutinized and went around the little figure. He put out his hand to Fairfax.

”Come and see me to-morrow. I want to talk to you.”

Fairfax answered that he would be sure to come, just as though he were not modelling at the studio for ten francs a day. He had been careful all along not to repeat his error of years before. He had avoided personalities with his master, as he toiled like a common day-labourer, content to make his living and to display no originality; but now he felt a sense of fellows.h.i.+p with the great Frenchman and walked along by Barye's side to the door, proud to be so distinguished. He glanced over the crowd in the hope of seeing Her, but instead, walking through the rooms, his eyegla.s.s in his eye, the little red badge of the Legion of Honour in his coat, he saw Cedersholm.

The following day, when he went to the exhibition, the man at the door handed a catalogue to Fairfax and pointed to No. 102, against which was the word ”Sold.” His price had been unpretentious.

”Moreover,” said the man, ”No. 102 will certainly have a medal.”

Fairfax, his hands in his empty pockets, was less impressed by that prognostication than by the fact that there was money for him somewhere.

The man opened the desk and handed Fairfax an envelope with five hundred francs in it.

”Who was the purchaser?” Fairfax looked at the receipt he was given to sign and read: ”Sold to Mr. Cedersholm.”

”Mais non,” he exclaimed shortly, ”ca, non!”

He was a.s.sured, however, that it was the American sculptor and no other.

On his way home he reflected, ”She sent him to purchase it.” And the five hundred francs bill burned in his pocket. Then he called himself a fool and asked what possible interest she could still have in Thomas Rainsford, whose news she had not taken in four weeks. And also, he reflected, that so far as Cedersholm was concerned, Thomas Rainsford had nothing to do with Antony Fairfax. ”He merely admired my work,” he reflected bitterly. ”He has seemed always singularly to admire it.”

He paid some pressing debts, got his clothes out of p.a.w.n, left Dearborn what he wanted, and was relieved when the last sou of the money was gone.

”I wonder, Bob,” he said to Dearborn, ”when I shall ever have any 'serious money.'” And with sudden tenderness he thought of Bella.

Dearborn, who had also recovered a partially decent suit of clothes, displayed his trousers and said--

”I think some chap has been wearing my clothes and stretched them.” They hung loose on him.