Max stiffened his shoulders; made brave show to hide the detestable ache in his soul.
"Yes, mademoiselle," he said. "I think, without pride, I may claim to see life wholly, without idealization."
Quite unexpectedly Jacqueline clapped her hands and laughed, stepping close to him with an engaging air of mystery.
"Then all is well! I have a physic for all your ills!"
He looked distrustful.
"A physic?"
"This, monsieur—that you put aside the great sorrow of your picture, and the little sorrow of your friend—and step across and partake of déjeuner with Lucien and me. A very special déjeuner, I assure you; no less than a poulet bonne femme, cooked with a care—"
She threw out her hands in an ecstasy of expression, a portrayal of the artless greed that had more than once brought a smile to the boy's lips. But this time no amusement was called up; disgust rose strong within him and, accompanying it, a certainty that were Jacqueline's chicken to be laid before him, he must assuredly choke with the first morsel. One does not eat when one has failed in one's art—or quarrelled with one's best friend!
"Mademoiselle," he said, unsteadily, "you are kind—and I am not without appreciation. But to-day I have no appetite—food does not call to me. Doubtless, there are days when M. Cartel cannot eat." He strove to force a laugh.
Jacqueline looked humorously grave.