Max

by Katherine Cecil Thurston

  CHAPTER XL

  The hour was sped, the day past; night, with its dark wings, covered theeastern sky and, one by one, the stars came forth--stars that gleamedlike new silver in the light sharpness of the September air.

  Having closed eyes to the world at the Pre Catelan, Maxine and Blake hadlengthened the coil of their dream as the day waxed. Three o'clock hadseen them driving into the heart of the Bois, and late afternoon hadfound them wandering under the formal, interlaced trees in the gardensof the Petit Trianon. At Versailles they dined, falling a little silentover their meal, for neither could longer hold at bay the sense thatevents impended--that all paths, however devious, however touched by theenchanter's wand, lead back by an unalterable law to the world ofrealities.

  With an unspoken anxiety they clung to the last moment of their meal;and when coffee had been partaken of, Maxine demanded yet another cupand, resting her elbows on the table, took her face between her hands.

  "Ned! Will you not offer me a cigarette?"

  He was all confusion at seeming remiss.

  "My dear one! A thousand pardons! I did not think--"

  "--That I smoked? Are you disappointed?"

  He smiled. "It is one charm the more--if there is room for one."

  He handed her a cigarette and lighted a match, his eyes resting uponher as she drew in the first breath of smoke with a quaint seriousnessthat smote him with a thought of the boy.

  "Dearest," he said, suddenly, "I have been so happy to-day that I havethought of no one but ourselves, and now, all at once--"

  Her eyes flashed up to his; she divined his thought, and it was asthough she put forth all her strength to ward off a physical danger.

  "Oh, _mon cher_, and was it not your day--our day? Would you have marredit with other thoughts?"

  "No; but yet--"

  "No! No!" She put out her hand, she pleaded with eyes and lips andvoice. "Look! Until this little cigarette is burned out!" She held upthe glowing tip. "When that is over, our day is over; then we return tothe world--but not until then. Is it--what do you say--a bargain?" Herwhite teeth flashed, her glance flashed with the brightness of tears,her fingers rested for a second upon his.

  The restaurant was practically empty; a few summer tourists were diningat tables close to the door, but Blake had chosen the farthest, dimmestcorner and there they sat in semi-isolation, living the last moments oftheir day with an intensity that neither dared to express and that eachwas conscious of with every beat of the heart.

  Maxine laughed as she drew her second puff of smoke, but her laugh had anervous thinness. Blake filled their liqueur-glasses, but his gesturewas uneven and a little of the brandy spilled upon the cloth.

  "A libation to the gods!" he said. "May they smile upon us!" He liftedhis glass and emptied it.

  Maxine forced a smile. "The gods know best!" she said, but as she raisedher glass, her hand, also, trembled.

  But Blake ignored her perturbation, as she ignored his. The comingordeal lay stark across their path, but neither would look upon it,neither would see beyond the tip of Maxine's cigarette--the tiny beacon,consuming even as it gave light!

  A silence fell--a silence of full five minutes--then Blake, yieldingonce more to the craving for the solace of contact, put his hand overhers.

  "Dear one, I know nothing of what is coming, but that I am utterly inyour hands. But let me say one thing. To-day has been heaven--thegolden, the seventh heaven!"

  She said nothing, she did not meet his eyes, but her cold fingersclasped his convulsively, and two tears fell hot upon their hands.

  That was all; that was the sum of their expression. No other word wasspoken. They sat silent, watching the cigarette burn itself out betweenMaxine's fingers.

  She held it to the very last, then dropped it into her finger-bowl androse.

  "Now, _mon cher_!" In the dim light she looked very tall and slight andseemed possessed of a curious dignity. All the animation had left herface, beneath the eyes were shadows, and in the eyes a tragicsadness--the sadness that the soul creates for itself.

  Blake rose also and, side by side, very quietly, they left therestaurant. In the street outside, the cab that had assisted in theday's adventures still waited their pleasure.

  He handed her to her place and paused, his foot upon the step.

  "And now, liege lady--where?"

  She looked at him gravely and answered without a tremor, "To Max'sstudio."

  Surprise--if surprise touched him--showed not at all upon his face. Hegave the order quietly and explicitly, and took his place beside her.

  Down the broad street of Versailles they wheeled, but both were toopreoccupied to see the lurking ghosts of a past _regime_ that lie sopalpably in the shadows, and presently Blake's hand found hers oncemore.

  "You are cold?"

  She shook her head.

  Through the cool night they drove, under the jewelled cloak of the sky,rushing forward toward Paris as Max had once rushed in the mysteriousnorth express.

  Blake did not speak or move again until the city was close about them;then, with a gesture that startled her by its unexpectedness, he drewfrom his hand the signet ring he always wore--a ring familiar to Max asthe stones of the rue Mueller--and slipped it over her third finger.

  "Oh, Ned!" She started as the ring slipped into place, and her voicetrembled with fear and superstition.

  He pressed her hand. "Don't refuse it! The ring is the emblem of theeternal, and all my thoughts for you belong to eternity."

  No more was said; they skimmed through the familiar ways until Maxinecould have cried aloud for grace, and at last they stopped at the cornerof the rue Andre de Sarte.

  She stood aside as Blake dismissed the cab, she knew that had speechbeen demanded of her then she could not have brought forth a word, soparched were her lips, so impotent her tongue.

  Her ordeal confronted her; no human power could eliminate it now. To herwas the disentangling of knotted threads, the sorting of the colors inthe scheme of things. She averted her face from Blake as they mountedthe Escalier de Sainte-Marie, and her hand clung for support to the ironrailing.

  Familiar to the point of agony was the open doorway, the dark hall ofthe house in the rue Mueller. Side by side they entered; side by side,and in complete silence, they made the ascent of the stairs, each stepof which was heavy with memories.

  On the fifth floor she went forward and opened the door of Max's_appartement_. Within, all was dark and quiet, and Blake, loyallyfollowing her, passed without comment through the tiny hall, on into thelittle _salon_ where the light from the brilliant sky made visible thepathetically familiar objects--the old copper vessels, the dower chest,the leathern arm-chair.

  This leather chair stood like a faithful sentinel close to the openwindow, and as his eyes rested on it he was conscious of a painedcontraction of the heart, for it stood exactly where it had stood whenlast he watched the stars and rambled through his dreams and ideals,with the boy for listener. The thought came quick and sharp, goading himas many a puzzled thought had goaded him in his months of solitude, andas at Versailles, he turned to Maxine, a question on his lips.

  But again she checked that question. Stepping through the shadows, shedrew him across the room toward the window. Reaching the old chair, shetouched his shoulder, gently compelling him to sit down.

  "Ned," she said, and to her own ears the word sounded infinitely faraway. "I seem to you very mad. But you have a great patience. Will yoube patient a little longer?"

  She had withdrawn behind the chair, laying both her hands upon hisshoulders, and as she spoke her voice shook in an unconquerablenervousness, her whole body shook.

  "My sweet!" He turned quickly and looked up at her. "What is all this?Why are you torturing yourself? For God's sake, let us be frank witheach other--"

  But she pressed his shoulders convulsively. "Wait! wait! It is only alittle moment now. I implore you to wait!"

  He sank back, and as in a dream felt her fingers release t
heir hold andheard her move gently back across the room; then, overwhelmed by theburden of dread that oppressed him, he leaned forward, bowing his faceupon his hands.

  Minutes passed--how few, how many, he made no attempt to reckon--thenagain the hushed steps sounded behind him, the sense of a graciouspresence made itself felt.

  Instinctively he attempted to rise, but, as before, Maxine's hands werelaid upon his shoulders, pressing him back into his seat. He saw herhands in the starlight--saw the glint of his own ring.

  "Ned!"

  "Dear one?"

  "It is dim, here in this room, but you know me? Your soul sees me?" Hervoice was shaking, her words sobbed like notes upon an instrument strungto breaking pitch.

  "My dear one! My dear one!" His voice, too, was sharp and pained; hestrove to turn in his chair, but she restrained him.

  "No! No! Say it without looking. You know me? I am Maxine?"

  "Of course you are Maxine!"

  "Ah!"

  It was a short, swift sound like the sobbing breath of a spent runner.It spoke a thousand things, and with its vibrations trembling upon herlips, Maxine came round the chair and Blake, looking up, saw Max--Maxof old, Max of the careless clothes, the clipped waving locks.

  It is in moments grotesque or supreme that men show themselves. Hesprang to his feet; he stared at the apparition until his eyes grewwide, but all he said was 'God!' very softly to himself. 'God!' And thenagain, 'God!'

  It was Maxine who opened the flood-gates of emotion; Maxine who, withwild gesture and broken voice, dressed the situation in words.

  "Now it is over! Now it is finished--the whole foolish play! Now youhave your sight--and your liberty to hate me! Hate me! Hate me! I amwaiting."

  "God!" whispered Blake again, not hearing her, piecing his thoughtstogether as a waking man tries to piece a dream. 'God!'

  The reiteration tortured her. She suddenly caught his arm, forcing himinto contact with her. "Do not speak to yourself!" she cried. "Speak tome! Say all you think! Hate me! Hate me!"

  Then at last he broke through the confusion of his mind, startling heras such men will always startle women by their innate singleness ofthought.

  "Hate you?" he said. "Why, in God's name, should I hate you?"

  "Because it is right and just."

  "That I should hate you, because I have been a fool? I do not see that."

  "But, Ned!" she cried; then, suddenly, at its sharpest, her voice broke;she threw herself upon her knees beside the chair and sobbed.

  And then it was that Blake showed himself. Kneeling down beside her, heput both arms about the boyish figure and, holding it close, pouredforth--not questions, not reproaches, not protestations--but a streamof compassion.

  "Poor child! Poor child! Poor child! What a fool I've been! What a bruteI've been!"

  But Maxine sobbed passionately, shrinking away from him, as though histouch were pain.

  "My child! My child! How foolish I have been! But how foolish you havebeen, too--how sweetly foolish! You gave with one hand and took awaywith the other. But now it is all over. Now you are going to give withboth hands--- I am to have my friend and my love as well. It is verywonderful. Oh, sweet, don't fret! Don't fret! See how simple it all is!"

  But Maxine's bitter crying went on, until at last it frightened him.

  "Maxine, don't! Don't, for God's sake! Why should you cry like this?What is it, when all's said and done, but a point of view? And a pointof view is adjusted much more quickly than you think. At first I thoughtthe earth was reeling round me, but now I know that 'twas only my ownbrain that reeled; and I know, too, that subconsciously I must alwayshave recognized you in Max--for I never treated Max as a common boy, didI? Did I, now? I always had a queer--a queer respect for him. Dear one,see it with me! Try to see it with me?"

  His appeal was pathetic; it was he who was the culprit--he whoextenuated and pleaded. The position struck Maxine, wounding her like aknife.

  "Oh, don't!" she cried in her own turn. "Don't, for the sake of God!"

  "But why? Why? My sweet! My love! My little friend! Max--Maxine!"

  It was not to be borne. She wrenched herself free and sprang to herfeet, confronting him with a pale face down which the tears streamed.

  "Because I am not your love! I am not your friend! I am not yourMax--or your Maxine!"

  Swift as she, he was on his feet, his bearing changed, his manhoodrecognizing the challenge in her voice, his instinct of possession aliveto combat it.

  "Not mine?" he said; and to Maxine, standing white and frail before him,the words seemed to have all the significance of life itself. Now atlast they confronted each other--man and woman; now at last the issue inthe war of sex was to be put to the test.

  She had always known that this moment would arrive--always known thatshe would meet it in some such manner as she was meeting it now.

  "Not mine?" Blake said again.

  She shook her head, throwing back her shoulders, clasping her handsbehind her, unconsciously taking on the attitude of defiance.

  "And why not?"

  It was curt, this question, as man's vital questions ever are; it was anonslaught that clove to the heart of things.

  She trembled for an instant, then met his eyes.

  "Because I will belong to no one. I must possess myself."

  He stared at her.

  "But it is not given to any one to possess himself! How can you separatean atom from the universal mass?"

  "An atom may detach itself--"

  "And fall into space! Is that self-possession? But, my God, are we goingto split hairs? Maxine! Maxine!" He came close to her and put out hisarms, but with a fierce gesture she evaded him; then, as swiftly, caughthis hand.

  "Oh, Ned! Oh, Ned! Can't you see?"

  "No!" said Blake, simply. "I cannot."

  "Listen! Then listen! I know myself for an individual--for a definiteentity; I know that here--here, within me"--she struck her breast--"Ihave power--power to think--power to achieve. And how do you think thatpower is to be developed?" She paused, looking at him with burning eyes."Not by the giving of my soul into bondage--not by the submerging ofmyself in another being. That night in Petersburg I saw my way--the hardway, the lonely way! Oh, Ned!" She stopped again, searching his face,but his face was pale and immobile--curiously, unnaturally immobile.

  With a passionate gesture, she flung his hand from her. "Oh, it is socruel! Can't you see? Can't you understand? I left Russia to make a newlife; I made myself a man, not for a whim, but as a symbol. Sex is onlyan accident, but the world has made man the independent creature--and Idesired independence. Sex is only an accident. Mentally, I am as good aman as you are."

  "Ten times a better man," said Blake, startingly. "But not near so gooda woman. For I know the highest thing--and you do not."

  "The highest thing?"

  "Love."

  "Ah!" She threw up her hands in despair and walked to the window,looking up blankly at the stars. Then, suddenly, she spoke again,tossing her words back into the room.

  "I suppose you think I am happy in all this?"

  He was silent.

  "I suppose you think I find this heaven?"

  At last he answered. He came across to her; he stood looking at her withhis strange new expression of inscrutability.

  "Oh, Maxine!" he said, "why must you misjudge me? Little Maxine, whocould be taken in my arms this minute and carried away to my castle,like a princess of long ago--but who would break her heart over thebondage! I haven't much, dear one, to justify my existence--but the godshave given me intuition. I do not think you are in heaven."

  He waited a moment, while in the sky above them the stars looked downimpartially upon the white domes of the church and the beacons ofpleasure in the city below.

  "Maxine! Shall I say the things for you that you want to say?"

  She bent her head.

  "Well, first of all, God help us, the world is a terrible tangle; andthen you have a strange soul that has never yet ha
lf revealed itself.You sent me away from you because you feared love; you called me backbecause you feared your fear--"

  "No! No! You are reasoning now, not justifying! You are entrapping me!"

  "Am I?"

  "Yes, and I refuse to be entrapped! I know love--I know all the speciousthings that love can say; the talk of independence, the talk ofequality! But I know the reality, too. The reality is the absoluteannihilation of the woman--the absolute merging of her identity."

  "So that is love?"

  "That is love."

  He stood looking at her with a long profound look of deep restraint, ofgreat sadness.

  "Maxine," he said, at last, "you have many gifts--a high intelligence, ayoung body, a strong soul, but in the matter of love you are a littlechild. To you, love is barter and exchange; but love is not that. Loveis nothing but a giving--an exhaustless giving of one's very best."

  She tried to laugh. "I understand! I should give!"

  "No, sweet, you should not. You cannot know the privileges of love, foryou do not know love."

  "Oh, Ned! How cruel! How cruel!"

  "You do not know love," he spoke, very gently, without any bitterness,"and I do know it; for it has grown in me, day by day, in these longmonths away from you. I am not to be praised, any more than you are tobe blamed. But I do love you--with my heart and my soul--with my lifeand my strength. I would die for you, if dying would help you; and as itwon't, I will do the harder thing--live for you."

  Her lips were parted, but they uttered no sound; her eyes, dark withthought, searched his face.

  "Oh, Maxine!" He caught her hand. "How low you have rated me--to think Iwould wrest you from yourself! Is it my place to make life harder foryou?"

  Still she gazed at him. "I do not understand," she said, in a frightenedwhisper.

  "Never mind, sweet! It doesn't matter if you never understand. Just giveme credit for one saving grace."

  He spoke lightly, as men speak when they are bankrupt of hope, then witha sudden breaking of his stoicism, he caught her in his arms, strainingher close, kissing her mouth, talking incoherently to himself.

  "Oh, Maxine! Little faun of the green groves! If you could know! Butwhat am I that I should possess the kingdom of heaven?"

  His ecstasy frightened her; she struggled to free herself.

  "What is it?" she asked. "What is it?"

  "Just love--no more, no less! Good-bye! Take your life--make it what youwill; but know always that one man at least has seen heaven in youreyes." Again he held her to him, his whole life seeming to flow outupon his thoughts and to envelop her, then his arms relaxed and verysoberly he took, first one of her hands, and then the other, kissingeach in turn.

  "Maxine!"

  "Ned!" The word faltered on her lips.

  "That's right!" he whispered. "I only wanted you to say my name.Good-bye now! Don't fret for me! After all, everything is as it shouldbe."

  She stood before him, the conqueror. All preconceptions had beenscattered; she had not even won her laurels, they had been placed at herfeet; and all the pomp and circumstance she could summon to hertriumphing was a white face, a drooping head, and speechless lips.

  "Good-bye, Maxine!" The words cried for response, and by a supremeeffort she summoned her voice from some far region.

  "Good-bye!"

  He did not kiss her hand again, but bending his head, he solemnly kissedhis own ring, lying cold upon her finger.

  CHAPTER XLI

  All was finished. Mystery was at an end. The pilgrim's staff had beenplaced in Maxine's hand, her feet set toward the great white road. Sheleaned back against the window of the _salon_ and her mental eyesscanned that road--the coveted road of freedom, the way of splendidisolation--and in a vague, dumb fashion she wondered why the whitenessthat had gleamed like snow in the distance should take on the hue ofdust seen at close quarters. She wondered why she should feel soabsolutely numbed--why life, with its exuberances of joy and sorrow,should suddenly have receded from her as a tide recedes.

  There had been no battle; hers was a bloodless victory. Fate had beenexquisitely kind, as is Fate's way when she would be ironical. Maxinecould call up no cause for grief or for resentment, no cause even forremorse. She had confessed herself; she had been shriven and blessed,and bade to go her way!

  Passing in review these phantom speculations, her eyes suddenly refusedthe vision of the mythical white road, stretching away inbrain-sickening length, and her physical sight caught at the familiarpicture revealed by the balcony--the thrice-known, thrice-lovedshrubbery, where already the glossy holly leaves were stirring underSeptember's fingers, whispering one to the other of fine cold autumnhours when gales would sweep the heights, bringing death to theirfrailer brethren, while they themselves nestled snug and strong,laughing at the elements. She traced the familiar outline of thesesturdy bushes, and her perfect triumph seemed like a winding sheet abouther limbs. She was above the world, removed from care, and all she knewwas that she would have given her heart for one moment of the hot humangrief that had seared her not four months ago.

  She turned from the trees, turned from the stars and moved back into theunlighted room. All was quiet and dim; she stumbled against thearm-chair and recoiled as though a friend had touched her inopportunely;then she passed blindly onward, finding the little hall, finding theouter door with groping hands.

  Outside was a deeper darkness, for here no starlight penetrated; but M.Cartel's door was ajar, and through the opening came a streak oflamplight and the hum of voices.

  Pausing, Maxine caught the deep, humorous tones of M. Cartel himself,broken first by an unknown voice, quick, tense, typically Parisian, thenby the light laugh of Jacqueline.

  In her cruel perfection of triumph, she had no need to fear thesevoices--these little evidences of sociability. They could not hurt her,for was she not impervious to pain?

  Another laugh, full and contented, came to her ear, then the opening ofthe piano and the masterful striking of a chord.

  A murmur of pleasure gave evidence of an audience, and instinctively shemoved forward, as a wanderer on a dark night draws near to a lighteddwelling. Gaining the door, she softly pushed it open, as M. Cartelexecuted a _roulade_, which melted into a brilliant piece ofimprovization.

  A bright lamp shone in the hall; but beyond, the open door of theliving-room displayed a half-lighted interior, with a handful of peoplegrouped about it. Foremost figure was M. Cartel seated at his musicwithin a radius of yellow light shed by four candles, while, beside him,a tall thin boy, and, behind him, Jacqueline seemed enclosed in asecondary, fainter circle of luminance. The rest of the room was inshadow, and as Maxine entered, she scarcely noticed the three otheroccupants--two men and a woman--who sat in a row close to the door,their backs to the wall.

  No one commented upon her entry. The little Jacqueline glanced roundonce, smiling a quick welcome, but returned immediately to hercontemplation of M. Cartel; the younger of the two men by the door--anItalian--paused in the lighting of a cigarette, but his companion--anold Polish Jew with a classic head and long, gray beard--retained hisattitude of rapt attention, while the woman, who sat a little apart, andwhose large black hat hid her face, made no sign.

  Treading softly, Maxine entered and crept into a seat opposite the trio,realizing, with an indifference that surprised her, that the woman wasLize of the Bal Tabarin and the Cafe des Cerises-jumelles.

  The music poured forth, a glittering stream of sound. The young Italianlighted cigarette after cigarette, smoking furiously and beatingsoundless time upon the floor with his foot, the old Pole sat lost in anemotional dream, tears gathering slowly in his eyes and tricklingunheeded down his cheeks, while Lize, in her moveless isolation, gazedwith fixed intensity at the wall above Maxine's head.

  Time passed; time seemed of small account in that atmosphere--as theoutside world was of small account. Not one of the little audiencequestioned how the other lived. It mattered nothing that in other hoursthe artistic fingers of the young I
talian were employed in themanufacture of fraudulent antiques--that the enthusiast by the pianowrote humorous songs at a starvation wage for an unsuccessful_comique_--that Lize, finding humanity foolish, made profit of itsfolly! 'What would you?' they would have asked with a shrug. 'One mustlive!' For the rest, there were moments such as this--moments when theartist was paramount in each of them--when pure enthusiasm made themchildren again!

  M. Cartel played on. He had forsaken improvization now, and wasinterpreting magnificently; occasionally the boy by the piano threw uphis hands ecstatically, muttering incoherently to himself; occasionallythe young Italian broke silence by a sharp, irresistible '_Brava_'; butfor the most part respectful silence spoke the intensity of the spell.

  Then at last Maxine, sitting in her corner, saw Jacqueline bend over theshoulder of M. Cartel, her hair shining like sun-rays in thecandlelight--saw her whisper in his ear--saw him look up and nod inabrupt acquiescence, and saw his square-tipped fingers lift for aninstant from the keys and descend again to a series of new chords.

  A little murmur of interest passed over the listeners. The Italian threwaway his half-smoked cigarette and lighted another, the Pole smiledtolerantly with half-closed eyes, as the old smile at the vagaries ofthe young, and Maxine in her shadowed seat felt her heart leaptumultuously as the little Jacqueline, her arm naively round theshoulder of M. Cartel, her head thrown back, began to sing the firstlines of the duet in _Louise_:

  'Depuis le jour ou je me suis donnee, toute fleurie semble ma destinee. Je crois rever sous un ciel de feerie, l'ame encore grisee de ton premier baiser!'

  And M. Cartel, lifting his head, broke in with the single electric cryof Julian the lover:

  'Louise!'

  Then, as if answering to the personal note, Jacqueline melted intoLouise's sweet admission of absolute surrender:

  'Quelle belle vie! Ah, je suis heureuse! trop heureuse ... et je tremble delicieusement, Au souvenir charmant du premier jour d'amour!'

  The effect was instant. The youth by the piano smiled radiantly andnodded in vehement approval; the young Italian puffed fiercely at hiscigarette; a flash of light crossed Lize's gaze, causing it toconcentrate.

  Jacqueline had no extraordinary voice, but music was native to her, andshe sang as birds sing, with a true light sweetness exquisite to theear:

  'Souvenir charmant du premier jour d'amour!'

  The declaration came to the listeners with a pure sincerity, it aboundedin simplicity, in youthfulness, in conviction. A quiver ran throughMaxine, her numbed senses vibrated. By an acute intuition she realizedthe composer's meaning; more, she appreciated the thrill called up inthe soul of M. Cartel. Her ears were strained to catch each note, eachphrase, with an intentness that astonished her; it suddenly appearedthat out of all the world, one thing alone was of significance--theclose following of this song, the apprehending of its purpose.

  'Souvenir charmant du premier jour d'amour!'

  The first night with Blake upon the balcony sprang back to memory, andwith it the wonder, the delight, the illimitable sense of kinship withthe universe. Again the spiritual sense lived in her, not warring withthe physical, but justifying, completing it. She sat uprightagainst the wall, suddenly fearful of this overwhelming mentaldisturbance--fighting the cloud of memory almost as one fights a bodilyfaintness.

  The music grew in meaning; she heard Julian's ardent question:

  'Tu ne regrette rien?'

  and Louise's triumphant answer:

  'Rien!'

  The words, simply human, divinely just, assailed her ears, and by lightof the intuition--the superconsciousness that was dominating her--thewhole truth of this confessed love poured in upon her soul. She saw thehalo about the head of the little singer, she appreciated the sublimegiving of herself that cried in the music of the song. It was no meresentiment on the lips of this fair child, it was the proclamation of atremendous fact.

  She leaned back against the wall, lips set, hands clasped. She clung tothe rock of her theories like a drowning man, and like the drowning manshe realized the imminence of the inundation that threatened her.

  The music swelled, and now it was not Jacqueline alone who sang; M.Cartel's voice rose, completing, perfecting the higher feminine notes,blending with them as the music of wind or running water might harmonizewith the singing of a bird. It was not art but nature that was at workin the words:

  'Nous sommes tous les amants, fideles a leur serment! Ah, le divin roman!

  * * * * *

  Nous sommes toutes les ames que brule le sainte flamme du desire! Ah, la parole ideale dont s'enivre mon corps tout entier! Dis encore ta chanson de delice! Ta chanson victorieuse, ta chanson de printemps!'

  The duet wore on, enthralling in its closeness to common human life,with its touches of tears, its touches of laughter, its hints oftenderness and bursts of passion. Not one face but had softened incomprehension as Louise painted the picture of her home--of the gentlefather, the scolding mother, the little daily frictions that wearpatience thin; not one heart but had leaped when passion broke a waythrough the song, mounting, mounting as upon wings, until Louise in herecstasy of love and joy and incredulity exclaims:

  'C'est le paradis! C'est une feerie!'

  And Julian answers:

  'Non! C'est la vie! l'Eternelle, la toute puissante vie!'

  It was the supreme, the psychological moment! The duet continued, butMaxine heard no further words. They echoed and re-echoed in her brain,they obsessed her, lifting her to a sublimal state.

  Across the room she saw the Italian throw away his cigarette and forgetto replace it; she saw Lize lean forward breathlessly, and she knew thatin fancy she was back in the Quartier Latin when life was young--whenlove laughed, and her hair was wreathed with vine leaves. She saw her atlast as a living woman--felt the grape-juice run down her neck--felt thekisses of the Jacque Aujet who was ten years dead!

  This, then, was the sum of life! Not the holding of fair things, but thegiving of them!

  She rose up; her limbs shook, but she paid no heed to physical strengthor weakness; she was on a plane where the soul moved free, regardless ofmortal needs. Neither Max nor Maxine had any place in her conceptions.She saw Lize, broken but justified, because she had given when lifeasked of her; she saw the little Jacqueline, with the halo ofcandle-light turning her blonde hair to gold; in a distant dream she sawthe frail, steadfast Madame Salas, and in a near, poignant vision shesaw Blake, and her soul melted within her.

  She conceived the world as one immense censer into which men and womenpoured their all, and from which a wondrous white smoke, a scentincredibly lovely, rose continually, enveloping the universe.

  To give! To give without hope of recompense, without question, withoutfear! That was the message of life.

  She looked round the little room; she yearned to put out her arms, toclasp each hand, to touch each forehead with the kiss of livingfellowship. Love consumed her, humility rilled her, she was a childagain, with all things to learn.

  The music was reaching its climax, it was filling every corner of theroom, and as she glanced toward the piano in a last long look, the twovoices rose in unison.

  Silently--none knowing the revolution within her soul--none seeing theheights upon which she walked--Maxine moved to the door and slipped outinto the hall, the picture of the lovers before her eyes, in her earsthe symbolic cry:

  'C'est la vie! l'Eternelle, la toute puissante vie!'

  Like a being inspired, she passed back into her own _appartement_, andthere, with a strange high excitement that was yet mystically calm,entered her little bedroom and lighted candles until not a shadow wasleft in all the white circumscribed space; then, standing in theillumination, like an acolyte who ministers to some secret rite, sheslowly unburdened herself of her boy's garments.

  The task was brief; they fell from her lightly, leaving her fair andvirgina
l and untrammelled in body, as she was virginal and untrammelledin mind; and with a sweet gravity she clothed herself, garment bygarment, in the dress of the morning.

  Ardent and eager--yet restrained, as befitted a woman aware of her highplace--she left the room and passed down the Escalier de Sainte-Marie. Arush of cool air came to her across the plantation, kissing her hotcheeks, the holly bushes whispered their secrets--which were her secretsas well, the eyes of the stars looked down, smiling into her eyes. Sheobserved no face in the thronging faces that passed her; she made hersteadfast way to the one point in the universe that was her goal byright divine. Even in the hallway of Blake's house she did not stop toquestion, but mounted the stairs and knocked upon his door, regardlessof the stormy beating of her heart, the faintness of anticipation thatencompassed her.

  A moment passed--a moment or a century; then he was before her,appealing to the innermost recesses of her being.

  He stared at her, as one might stare upon a ghost.

  "Maxine!"

  Her lips parted, trembling with a pleading tenderness.

  "Maxine!" he said again; and now his voice shook, as hers had shaken inMax's little starlit studio.

  It was the cry she had waited for--the confirmation of her faith. Herhands went out to him; her soul suddenly poured forth allegiance in lookand voice.

  "Ned! Ned! Take me! Take me and teach me! Take me away to your castle,like the princess of old. Show me the white sky and the opal sea, andthe seaweed that smells like violets!"

  His hands clasped hers, his incredulous eyes besought her. "Maxine, thisis some dream?"

  "No; it is no dream. We are awake. It is life!"

  THE END