Maxine was in high exaltation--the exaltation that makes no count of
cost. Yesterday mattered not at all; to-morrow might never dawn! As the
outer door closed upon Blake, she turned back into the lighted
_salon_--the little _salon_ of Max's books, of Max's boyish tastes--the
little _salon_ loved beyond all rooms in Paris!
In a smiling dream she passed through it, on into the studio where no
light was, save the light from a shred of crescent moon that had lately
climbed into the sky. It had a curious effect--this bare, white room
with its gaunt easel, upon which the portrait still stood, and to
superstitious eyes, it might well have suggested a ghost-chamber,
peopled by dead thoughts, dead impressions: but Maxine was in no morbid
mood, happiness ran too high--too red and warm--to permit of shadows
disputing its high place.
Smiling, smiling, she passed from the studio to the bedroom. The room
that had witnessed her first weakness; the room that had brought her
strength. How infinitely wise had been the conduct of that night! How
irrevocably fate had created doubt and dispersed it by inspiration. If
she had not twisted her hair about her head--if the little Jacqueline
had not entered at the critical moment--if, for that matter, M. Cartel
and his friend had not talked late and partaken of _bouillon_--
She laughed; she wandered round the room, touching, appraising the
little familiar trifles associated with that past hour; at last she sat
down before her mirror, and there Jacqueline found her ten minutes
later, when curiosity could no longer be withheld and she came creeping
across the landing for news of the night's doings.
Maxine heard her enter; heard her search the _salon_ and then the
studio; finally called to her.
"Jacqueline!"
"Madame!"
The door opened, and Maxine looked round, the smile still upon her lips.
"No soup for me to-night, Jacqueline? Not even tea?"
Jacqueline caught the happy lightness of the tone, and silently nodded
her blonde head as she tiptoed into the room.
"Ah, madame has had a banquet of the mind! Madame has no need of my poor
food."
Maxine picked up a comb and arranged the tendrils of hair that curled
about her temples.
"Jacqueline," she said, after a silence, "what do you consider the
highest thing?"
The question might have been astonishing, but her visitor did not betray
surprise by even the quiver of an eyelash.
"Love, madame," she said.
And Maxine did not flash round upon her in one of her swift rages, did
not even draw her brows together into their frowning line. She merely
gazed into the mirror, as if weighing the statement judicially.
"All people do not hold that opinion," she said, at last.
Jacqueline shrugged her shoulders in the exercise of an infinite
patience. "No, madame?"
"No. M. Blake talked to-night of 'the highest thing,' and he did not
mean love."
"No, madame?" Jacqueline was very guileless.
But guileless as her tone was--nay, by reason of its guilelessness--it
touched Maxine in some shadowy corner of her woman's consciousness; and
spurred by a subtle, disquieting suggestion, she turned in her chair,
and fixed her serious gray eyes upon her visitor.
"What are your thoughts, Jacqueline?"
Jacqueline, taken unawares, deprecated.
"Oh, madame--"
But Maxine was set to her point. "Answer my question," she insisted. "I
wish to know. I am, above all things, practical."
It was to Jacqueline's credit that she did not smile, that she simply
murmured: "Who doubts it, madame?"
"Yes; I am, above all things, practical. In this affair of the woman, I
know exactly where I stand."
The girl made no comment; but even to Maxine's own ears, her declaration
left a little suggestion of over-vehemence vibrating in the air; and
startled by this suggestion, she did the least wise, the most human
thing possible, she accentuated it.
"If I were different--if M. Blake were different, I grant that,
perhaps--" She stopped abruptly. "Jacqueline, what are your thoughts?"
"Oh, madame, I have none!"
And here Maxine made a change of front, became very grave, touched the
gracious, encouraging note of the being to whom life is an open book.
"You must not say that," she corrected, sweetly. "You always have
ideas--even if they are sometimes a little in the air. Come! Tell me.
What are your thoughts?"
But Jacqueline was wary, as befitted one who made no pretence of
scholarship, but who knew the old human story by heart, and daily
recited it to one ardent listener.
"Oh, madame, it is not fitting--"
"Absurd! Tell me."
Jacqueline, hard pressed, sought refuge in a truth.
"My thoughts might displease madame."
Maxine sat straighter in her chair. Here was another matter!
"Ah, so that is it! Well, now I am determined. Now I will have the
thoughts at any cost."
When Maxine spoke like this, when her lips closed upon her words, when
her eyes rested unflinchingly upon her listener, she was wont to have
her questions answered. Jacqueline recognized the moment, saw Maxine in
all her proud foolishness, loved her with that swift intermingling of
pity and worship that such beings as she inevitably call forth, finally
tossed her little head in her most tantalizing manner and laughed.
"With madame's permission," she said, "I will wish her good-night!"
"The permission is not granted."
"Nevertheless, madame!" Her hand was on the door.
"Wait!" cried Maxine, peremptorily. "I have asked you a question and you
must answer it."
Jacqueline stopped half-way through the doorway, and looked back, her
flower-like face alight with mischief.
"Pardon, madame! 'Must' is the word for the ruler. Lucien says 'must' to
me; M. Blake says 'must' to"--she paused, with maddening precision; she
dropped a little impertinent curtsy--"to M. Max!"
She tossed the word upon the air, as a child might blow thistle-down;
she laughed and was gone, leaving Maxine conscious of a strange new
sensation that whipped her to anger and yet, most curiously, left her
bereft of words.