He watched the boy's mobile face as he put his question: he saw it swept
by emotion, transfigured as if by some inner light; then the hand in his
trembled a little, and the gray eyes with their flecks of gold were
lifted to his own, giving insight into the hidden soul.

"I want more than pleasure, monsieur--more than money," he said. "I want
first life--and then fame."




CHAPTER VII


It trembled and hung upon the air--that brief word "fame"--as it has so
often hung and trembled in the streets and in the _cafés_ of Paris,
winged with the exuberance of youth, the faith in his mystic star that
abides in the heart of the artist. In that moment of confession the
individuality of the boy was submerged in his ambition; he belonged to
no country, to no sex. He was inspiration made manifest--the flame
fanned into being by the winds of the universe, blown as those winds
listed.

The Irishman looked into his burning face, and a curious unnamable
feeling thrilled him--a sense of enthusiasm, of profound sadness, of
poignant envy.

"You're not only seeking the greatest thing in the world," he said,
slowly, "but the cruellest. Failure may be cruel, but success is