CHAPTER XXXI
Nothing less than absolute conviction can shake a strong nature. A waveof doubt swept over Maxine as her little neighbor's words died out andthe door closed, leaving her to silence and solitude; but for all herfolly, she was strong, and strength such as hers is not shaken by theshaft of a Jacqueline, however cunningly sped.
She sat for long, troubled, perplexed--almost, it might have seemed,fearful of herself--- but gradually the strength asserted itself, thefine, blind faith within her asserted itself in a wave of reaction.
Some small weakness had been hers, she admitted--some small shrinkingfrom the truth of things! She had been remiss in the application of hertest, allowing the dream to oust the reality in that fascinating hourwith Blake. Remiss, but no more!
At this stage in her meditations, she returned to the balcony, studyingthe sky anew--drinking in confidence from the glory of the stars, theslight grace of the crescent moon.
She became the boy again in mind and heart, enthusiastic, assured,thirsting for action; she looked down upon Paris frankly and withoutdefiance--or so she deemed; and the old, wild suggestions of 'liberty,equality, brotherhood,' seemed to rise, ghostly, from its stones.
Enthusiasm is ever a gracious, pardonable thing, because in itsessentials are youth and zeal and all high, white-hot qualities whoseroots strike not in the base earth. Any sage, nay, any simpleton, seeingMaxine upon the balcony, could have told her what a fool she was; butwho would have told it without a pause, without a sigh for the divinityof such folly?
Next day she rose, refreshed of body, because refreshed of soul; andarrayed in the garments of her strength, went forth to prove her faith.
Max it was--Max of the quick, lithe feet and eager glance--who left therue Mueller, heedless of breakfast, and began his descent upon Paris,making straight for the heart of the citadel with the true instinct ofthe raider.
Up to this moment, Blake's rooms had been a mere name, lying as they didwithin the forbidden precincts of the fashionable world, but to-day nocorner of Paris offered terrors, for the simple reason that Paris itselfhad come to be incorporated in Blake, and that, being strong enough todare Blake, Max was strong enough to dare the city.
Self-analysis played no part in his mental process as he swung down thesteep, familiar streets. A singleness of purpose, high as it wasfoolish, possessed and inspired him. He loved Blake with a wonderful,unsexual love, and he yearned to lay himself at his feet, to offer himof his best--gifts of the gods, given with free hands from a free heart.
Something of the sweet foolishness must have shown upon his face, forwhen he reached his destination, Blake's _concierge_, usually a taciturnindividual, offered him a welcome as he stepped from the brilliantsunshine into the dim cool hallway, and gave him the information heneeded with a good grace.
So far, well! But happy assurance emanated from him, and success iscompounded of such assurance. He knocked upon Blake's door, certain thatBlake himself and not his servant would answer to his summons; and asthough the gods smiled at the childish confidence, his certainty wasrewarded. The sound of a familiar step set his pulses racing, a hand waslaid upon the door, and desire became accomplished.
"What! Max?"
"Yes, Max! Is he welcome?" All the hoarded strength of the night wasaudible in the words. Max threw up his head, met Blake's eyes, held outhis hand--the boy in every particular.
"Welcome? As welcome as the flowers in May! Come in! Come along in!"Blake had accepted the masquerade; all was as before.
Together they passed into the _salon_, and instantly Blake becamehost--the _role_ of _roles_ for him.
"Now, boy, don't tell me you have breakfasted! But even if you have, youmust breakfast again. Come, sit down! Sit down! My fellow makes mostexcellent coffee--good as Madame Gustav's of the rue Fabert! Rememberthe rue Fabert?"
So he rattled on, placing a second chair, seeking an additional cup, andever Max listened, happy with an acute happiness that almost touched theverge of tears.
But though emotion choked him he played his part gallantly. He was theboy of old days to the very life, swaggering a little in a youthfulforgivable conceit, playing the lord of creation to an amused,sympathetic audience.
"Ned," he cried at last, flinging his words from him with all the oldfrank ease, "tell me to apologize!"
Blake looked up, and the affection, the tolerance in the look quiveredthrough Max's senses.
"Now, boy! Now!" he warned. "Be careful what you're saying! It's onlyvery ordinary friends talk about apologies. And I don't think we haveever been very ordinary friends."
"No! No! But still--"
"Well, say your say!"
The tone was full of indulgence, but, also, it was touched with subtlerthings. This unexpected invasion had pleased and flattered Blake; itspoke an influence used on his behalf that he dared not haveclaimed--dared not have expected.
Max walked to the window, looked down an instant into the brilliant,sunlit street, came back to Blake's side, all with a swiftimpulsiveness.
"Ned, I am the same friend--the same comrade?"
"Indeed, yes!"
"But you do not think I possess a soul?"
Blake, taken unawares, colored like any boy.
"Oh, come!"
"But it is true. I know, for I have been told. And you are wrong--quitewrong."
Blake was about to laugh, but he looked at the young face, suddenlygrown grave, and his own words came back to him guiltily. 'Max's lipswere made for laughter--his eyes are too bright for tears!'
"Poor little faun!" he said, with jesting tenderness. "Have I misjudgedyou?"
Max nodded seriously. "You have. She has made me realize."
"Ah! That was like her!" It was Blake's turn to walk to the window; andthe boy, watching him eagerly, was unable to place the constraint thatsuddenly tinged his voice, suddenly veiled his manner.
"Ned," he was urged to say, "tell me! Has she brought us nearertogether--my sister Maxine?"
Blake hesitated; for even your Irishman, brimming to confide, isreticent when he stands before his holy of holies.
"Ned, tell me!"
The tone was enticing. Blake turned from the window, strode back acrossthe room, cast an affectionate arm about the boy's shoulder.
"She is a worker of miracles--your sister Maxine!"
The words were warm, the clasp was warm; Max's inspiration gushed up, afountain of faith.
"She understands you? She shows you 'the higher things'?"
"By God, she does!"
"Then you shall see her once more!" The ideal was predominant; zeal andyouth, the white-hot gifts, were lavished at Blake's feet. "Come to thestudio to-night, and I shall leave you in her company willingly, gladly,with all my heart. Ned! Say you will come!"
And Blake, dreaming his own dream, pressed the boy's shoulder andlaughed, and answered with the jest that covers so many things.
"Will I come? Will a man turn back from the gate of heaven when SaintPeter uses his key?"
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