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<h2>CHAPTER XXVIII</h2> <div class="first">BLAKE must have reached the last step of the Escalier de Sainte-Marie, must indeed have turned the corner of the rue André de Sarte before the creaking of a footstep or the opening of a door disturbed the silence of the fifth floor; but, due time having expired—due deference having been paid to taste and the proprieties—the handle of M. Cartel's door was very softly turned, and Jacqueline slipped forth into the shadowed landing.</div> Never were human curiosity and feminine craft more signally displayed than in the slim little form creeping on tiptoe, the astute, piquante little face thrust forth into the dark. Across the landing she stole, and with deft fingers opened Max's door without a sound. Here, in the narrow hallway, she paused and called gently, "Monsieur Max!" But as no voice answered, she crept to the salon door and, with a little comedy of smiles all for her own diversion, called again with pursed lips and in a stage whisper: "Madame! Madame!" It carried—this portentous word—across the quiet room to the balcony where Maxine was lingering; it drew from her a little 'oh,' of consternation; finally, it brought her running across the room to her visitor. Jacqueline, lynx-eyed, stood and looked at her—noting how flushed she was, how youthful-looking, how unguarded and brimming with emotion. "Madame!" she cried. "I know without a word! It has been a grand success." <center><ANTIMG src="images/ill226.jpg" width-obs="400" height-obs="614" alt=""C'EST LA VIE! L'ETERNELLE, LA TOUTE-PUISSANTE VIE!""> </center> <h5>"C'EST LA VIE! L'ETERNELLE, LA TOUTE-PUISSANTE VIE!"</h5> Maxine laughed, a girlish laugh of self-betrayal. "A grand success! Absolutely a grand success! And, Jacqueline"—she hesitated, laughed again with charming self-consciousness, rushed afresh into speech—"Jacqueline, he thought me beautiful! Not a word was said, but I know he thought me beautiful. Tell me! Am I beautiful?" Swiftly, as might the boy, she threw off her velvet cloak, letting it fall to the ground, and showed herself tall and supple and straight in her white dress. Jacqueline rushed forward warmly, caught and kissed her hand. "Madame, you are ravishing!" And, with her pretty native practicality, she picked up the cloak, carefully folded and carefully laid it aside. "Ravishing!" Maxine laughed once more. "Jacqueline, I am something more than that! I am happy!" She threw out her arms, as if to embrace the universe. "I am happier than the saints in heaven! I am living in the moment, and the moment is perfection! I care nothing that yesterday I wept, that to-morrow I may weep again. I am alive and I am happy. I feel as I used to feel at fifteen years old, galloping a spirited horse. The whole world is sublime—from the dust in the streets to the stars in the sky!" She forgot her companion, her speech broke off, she turned and began to pace the room with head thrown back, hands clasped behind her with careless, boyish ease. For a while Jacqueline watched her, diligently sifting out every emotional sign; then, deeming that some moment of her own choosing had arrived, she slipped unobserved from the room, to return a minute later bearing a kettle full of boiling water. Maxine looked round as she made her entry. "A kettle, Jacqueline?" "For madame's tea. And, my God, but it is hot!" She set it down hastily in the fireplace, and sucked her finger with a pouting smile. Maxine smiled, too, coming back from her dream with vague graciousness. "But I do not need tea." Jacqueline did not refute the statement, but merely began to manipulate the samovar in the manner learned of Max, while Maxine, yielding to her own delicious exaltation, fell again to her long, slow pacing of the floor. Presently the inviting smell of tea began to pervade the room, and Jacqueline set out a cup and saucer—Max's first purchase from old Bluebeard of the curios. "Madame is served!" She stood behind the chair ordained for Maxine, very sedate, very assured of her own arrangements. Maxine paused, as though the suggestion of tea was brought to her for the first time. "How delightful!" she said, with swift, serene pleasure. "How kind! How thoughtful!" "Seat yourself, madame!" The chair was drawn forward; the just and proper thrill of preparation was conveyed by Jacqueline; and Maxine seated herself, still in her smiling dream. Half the cup of tea was consumed under Jacqueline's watchful eye, then she stole round the chair. "Madame, a cigarette?" Her fingers crept to the cigarette-box, then found and struck a match, all with a deft, unobtrusive quiet that won its way undenied. The cigarette was lighted, Maxine leaned back in her chair, Jacqueline's confidential moment was secured. "And so, madame, it was a grand success?" Maxine looked up. The first fine ecstasy was past; the after-glow of deep contentment curled round her with the cigarette smoke; she was the pliant reed to the soft wind of Jacqueline's whispering. "It was past belief," she answered, "past all belief. We stood together in the light of the lamp and looked each other in the eyes, and he never guessed. He never guessed—he, who has—Oh, it was past belief!" "Ah!" murmured Jacqueline, complacently. "I told madame I had a quite extraordinary talent in the dressing of hair—though madame was sceptical! And as for the purchase of clothes. Did he admire madame's velvet cloak?" Maxine smiled tolerantly. "Of course he did not!" Jacqueline cast up her eyes to heaven. "These English—they are extraordinary! But I tell you this, madame, he knew here"—she touched her heart—"he knew here, that madame looked what she is—a queen!" "Absurd child!" The reproof was gentle; Jacqueline's nimble tongue took advantage of the chance given it. "And tell me, madame? He play his part gallantly—Monsieur Édouard?" Never before had she dared so much; but never before had Maxine's eyes looked as they looked to-night. Before replying, Maxine leaned her elbows on the table and took her face between her hands. "It was past belief—that also!" she said at last. "He seemed a different being. I cannot understand it." "He seemed of a greater interest, madame?" "Of a strangely greater interest." "In what manner, madame? Looks? Words?" Cunning as a monkey, little Jacqueline was all soft innocence in the method of her questioning. "In every way—manner—speech—expression of thought. And, Jacqueline"—she turned her face, all radiant and unsuspicious, to her interlocutor—"I made a discovery! He loves Max!" Jacqueline, with downcast eyes and discreet bearing, carefully removed the empty tea-cup. "Yes, he loves me as Max! He told me so. It has made me marvellously happy—marvellously happy and, also"—she sighed—"also, Jacqueline, just a little sad!" "Sad, madame?" "Yes, sad because he loves Max as one loves a child, expecting no return; and—I would be loved as an equal." "Assuredly, madame." "I must be loved as an equal!" Fire suddenly kindled her dreaming voice; a look, clear and alert, suddenly crossed her eyes. "Jacqueline," she cried, "I have set myself a new task. I shall make him respect Max as well as love him; Max shall become his equal. Now, suppose you set yourself a task like that, how would you begin?" "Oh, madame!" Jacqueline was all deprecation. "Do not fear. Tell me!" "Madame, it is not for me—" Jacqueline's triumph in the moment, and her concealing of the triumph, were things exquisitely feminine. "Tell me!" "I may speak from the heart, madame?" Maxine bent her head in gracious condescension. "Then, madame, I would make of Monsieur Édouard a book of figures. The princess would learn the rules; Monsieur Max would shut the book, and make up the sum. It would be quite simple." The hot color scorched Maxine's face; she rose quickly. "Jacqueline! I had not expected this!" "Madame desired me to speak from the heart. The heart, at times, is unruly!" "True! Forgive me. But you should not suggest a thing that you know to be impossible." "Pardon, madame! I was thinking of the many impossibilities performed in a good cause!" "Say no more, Jacqueline! To-night was to-night! To-night is over!" She walked across the room and passed out upon the balcony, leaning over the railing at the spot where Blake had stood. Jacqueline, swift and guileful, was instantly beside her. "Madame, at its most serious, to-night was a little comedy. Is it so criminal to repeat a little comedy—once, or even twice—in a good cause? It is not as if madame were not sure of herself! Besides, the comedy was charming!" "Yes; the comedy was charming!" Maxine echoed the sentiment, and in her heart called 'charming' a poor word. "But even if I were weak, Jacqueline," she added, "how could I banish Max? Max could scarcely continue to have important business." "Perhaps not, madame; but Monsieur Max might continue to display temper! Do not forget that he and Monsieur Édouard did not part upon the friendliest terms." Maxine smiled. "But even granted that, I could not be here again—alone." Jacqueline, with airiest scorn, tossed the words aside. "That, madame? Why, that arranges itself! The princess loves her brother! His quarrel is her grief. Is not woman always compassionate?" The tone was irresistible. Maxine laughed. "Jacqueline, you were the Serpent in Adam's Garden! There is not a doubt of it! No wonder poor M. Cartel has taken so big a bite of the Apple." She laughed again, and Jacqueline laughed too, in mischievous delight. "Madame!" she coaxed. "Madame!" "No!" said Maxine, with eyes fixed determinately upon the lights of the city; while somewhere above her in the cool, clear starlight, a hidden voice—her own, and not her own—whispered a subtle 'Yes!' <hr style='width: 65%;'> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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