<h2>CHAPTER XLI</h2>
<br/>
<div class="first">ALL was finished. Mystery was at an end. The
pilgrim's staff had been placed in Maxine's hand, her feet set
toward the great white road. She leaned back against the window of
the <i>salon</i> and her mental eyes scanned that road—the
coveted road of freedom, the way of splendid isolation—and in
a vague, dumb fashion she wondered why the whiteness that had
gleamed like snow in the distance should take on the hue of dust
seen at close quarters. She wondered why she should feel so
absolutely numbed—why life, with its exuberances of joy and
sorrow, should suddenly have receded from her as a tide
recedes.</div>
<p>There had been no battle; hers was a bloodless victory. Fate had
been exquisitely kind, as is Fate's way when she would be ironical.
Maxine could call up no cause for grief or for resentment, no cause
even for remorse. She had confessed herself; she had been shriven
and blessed, and bade to go her way!</p>
<p>Passing in review these phantom speculations, her eyes suddenly
refused the vision of the mythical white road, stretching away in
brain-sickening length, and her physical sight caught at the
familiar picture revealed by the balcony—the thrice-known,
thrice-loved shrubbery, where already the glossy holly leaves were
stirring under September's fingers, whispering one to the other of
fine cold autumn hours when gales would sweep the heights, bringing
death to their frailer brethren, while they themselves nestled snug
and strong, laughing at the elements. She traced the familiar
outline of these sturdy bushes, and her perfect triumph seemed like
a winding sheet about her limbs. She was above the world, removed
from care, and all she knew was that she would have given her heart
for one moment of the hot human grief that had seared her not four
months ago.</p>
<p>She turned from the trees, turned from the stars and moved back
into the unlighted room. All was quiet and dim; she stumbled
against the arm-chair and recoiled as though a friend had touched
her inopportunely; then she passed blindly onward, finding the
little hall, finding the outer door with groping hands.</p>
<p>Outside was a deeper darkness, for here no starlight penetrated;
but M. Cartel's door was ajar, and through the opening came a
streak of lamplight and the hum of voices.</p>
<p>Pausing, Maxine caught the deep, humorous tones of M. Cartel
himself, broken first by an unknown voice, quick, tense, typically
Parisian, then by the light laugh of Jacqueline.</p>
<p>In her cruel perfection of triumph, she had no need to fear
these voices—these little evidences of sociability. They
could not hurt her, for was she not impervious to pain?</p>
<p>Another laugh, full and contented, came to her ear, then the
opening of the piano and the masterful striking of a chord.</p>
<p>A murmur of pleasure gave evidence of an audience, and
instinctively she moved forward, as a wanderer on a dark night
draws near to a lighted dwelling. Gaining the door, she softly
pushed it open, as M. Cartel executed a <i>roulade</i>, which
melted into a brilliant piece of improvization.</p>
<p>A bright lamp shone in the hall; but beyond, the open door of
the living-room displayed a half-lighted interior, with a handful
of people grouped about it. Foremost figure was M. Cartel seated at
his music within a radius of yellow light shed by four candles,
while, beside him, a tall thin boy, and, behind him, Jacqueline
seemed enclosed in a secondary, fainter circle of luminance. The
rest of the room was in shadow, and as Maxine entered, she scarcely
noticed the three other occupants—two men and a
woman—who sat in a row close to the door, their backs to the
wall.</p>
<p>No one commented upon her entry. The little Jacqueline glanced
round once, smiling a quick welcome, but returned immediately to
her contemplation of M. Cartel; the younger of the two men by the
door—an Italian—paused in the lighting of a cigarette,
but his companion—an old Polish Jew with a classic head and
long, gray beard—retained his attitude of rapt attention,
while the woman, who sat a little apart, and whose large black hat
hid her face, made no sign.</p>
<p>Treading softly, Maxine entered and crept into a seat opposite
the trio, realizing, with an indifference that surprised her, that
the woman was Lize of the Bal Tabarin and the Café des
Cerises-jumelles.</p>
<p>The music poured forth, a glittering stream of sound. The young
Italian lighted cigarette after cigarette, smoking furiously and
beating soundless time upon the floor with his foot, the old Pole
sat lost in an emotional dream, tears gathering slowly in his eyes
and trickling unheeded down his cheeks, while Lize, in her moveless
isolation, gazed with fixed intensity at the wall above Maxine's
head.</p>
<p>Time passed; time seemed of small account in that
atmosphere—as the outside world was of small account. Not one
of the little audience questioned how the other lived. It mattered
nothing that in other hours the artistic fingers of the young
Italian were employed in the manufacture of fraudulent
antiques—that the enthusiast by the piano wrote humorous
songs at a starvation wage for an unsuccessful
<i>comique</i>—that Lize, finding humanity foolish, made
profit of its folly! 'What would you?' they would have asked with a
shrug. 'One must live!' For the rest, there were moments such as
this—moments when the artist was paramount in each of
them—when pure enthusiasm made them children again!</p>
<p>M. Cartel played on. He had forsaken improvization now, and was
interpreting magnificently; occasionally the boy by the piano threw
up his hands ecstatically, muttering incoherently to himself;
occasionally the young Italian broke silence by a sharp,
irresistible '<i>Brava</i>'; but for the most part respectful
silence spoke the intensity of the spell.</p>
<p>Then at last Maxine, sitting in her corner, saw Jacqueline bend
over the shoulder of M. Cartel, her hair shining like sun-rays in
the candlelight—saw her whisper in his ear—saw him look
up and nod in abrupt acquiescence, and saw his square-tipped
fingers lift for an instant from the keys and descend again to a
series of new chords.</p>
<p>A little murmur of interest passed over the listeners. The
Italian threw away his half-smoked cigarette and lighted another,
the Pole smiled tolerantly with half-closed eyes, as the old smile
at the vagaries of the young, and Maxine in her shadowed seat felt
her heart leap tumultuously as the little Jacqueline, her arm
naïvely round the shoulder of M. Cartel, her head thrown back,
began to sing the first lines of the duet in <i>Louise</i>:</p>
<div class='poem'>
<div class='stanza'><span>'Depuis le jour où je me suis
donnée, toute fleurie semble ma destinée.<br/></span>
<span>Je crois rêver sous un ciel de féerie,
l'âme encore grisée de ton premier
baiser!'<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p>And M. Cartel, lifting his head, broke in with the single
electric cry of Julian the lover:</p>
<div class='poem'>
<div class='stanza'><span>'Louise!'<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p>Then, as if answering to the personal note, Jacqueline melted
into Louise's sweet admission of absolute surrender:</p>
<div class='poem'>
<div class='stanza'><span>'Quelle belle vie!<br/></span> <span>Ah,
je suis heureuse! trop heureuse ... et je tremble
délicieusement,<br/></span> <span>Au souvenir charmant du
premier jour d'amour!'<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p>The effect was instant. The youth by the piano smiled radiantly
and nodded in vehement approval; the young Italian puffed fiercely
at his cigarette; a flash of light crossed Lize's gaze, causing it
to concentrate.</p>
<p>Jacqueline had no extraordinary voice, but music was native to
her, and she sang as birds sing, with a true light sweetness
exquisite to the ear:</p>
<div class='poem'>
<div class='stanza'><span>'Souvenir charmant du premier jour
d'amour!'<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p>The declaration came to the listeners with a pure sincerity, it
abounded in simplicity, in youthfulness, in conviction. A quiver
ran through Maxine, her numbed senses vibrated. By an acute
intuition she realized the composer's meaning; more, she
appreciated the thrill called up in the soul of M. Cartel. Her ears
were strained to catch each note, each phrase, with an intentness
that astonished her; it suddenly appeared that out of all the
world, one thing alone was of significance—the close
following of this song, the apprehending of its purpose.</p>
<div class='poem'>
<div class='stanza'><span>'Souvenir charmant du premier jour
d'amour!'<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p>The first night with Blake upon the balcony sprang back to
memory, and with it the wonder, the delight, the illimitable sense
of kinship with the universe. Again the spiritual sense lived in
her, not warring with the physical, but justifying, completing it.
She sat upright against the wall, suddenly fearful of this
overwhelming mental disturbance—fighting the cloud of memory
almost as one fights a bodily faintness.</p>
<p>The music grew in meaning; she heard Julian's ardent
question:</p>
<div class='poem'>
<div class='stanza'><span>'Tu ne regrette rien?'<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p>and Louise's triumphant answer:</p>
<div class='poem'>
<div class='stanza'><span>'Rien!'<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p>The words, simply human, divinely just, assailed her ears, and
by light of the intuition—the superconsciousness that was
dominating her—the whole truth of this confessed love poured
in upon her soul. She saw the halo about the head of the little
singer, she appreciated the sublime giving of herself that cried in
the music of the song. It was no mere sentiment on the lips of this
fair child, it was the proclamation of a tremendous fact.</p>
<p>She leaned back against the wall, lips set, hands clasped. She
clung to the rock of her theories like a drowning man, and like the
drowning man she realized the imminence of the inundation that
threatened her.</p>
<p>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 harmonize with the singing of a bird. It was not art but
nature that was at work in the words:</p>
<div class='poem'>
<div class="stanza"><span>'Nous sommes tous les amants,
fidèles a leur serment! Ah, le divin roman!<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza"><span>Nous sommes toutes les âmes que
brûle le sainte flamme du désire!<br/></span>
<span class='i2'>Ah, la parole idéale dont s'enivre mon
corps tout entier!<br/></span> <span class='i2'>Dis encore ta
chanson de délice! Ta chanson victorieuse, ta chanson de
printemps!'<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p>The duet wore on, enthralling in its closeness to common human
life, with its touches of tears, its touches of laughter, its hints
of tenderness and bursts of passion. Not one face but had softened
in comprehension as Louise painted the picture of her home—of
the gentle father, the scolding mother, the little daily frictions
that wear patience thin; not one heart but had leaped when passion
broke a way through the song, mounting, mounting as upon wings,
until Louise in her ecstasy of love and joy and incredulity
exclaims:</p>
<div class='poem'>
<div class='stanza'><span>'C'est le paradis! C'est une
féerie!'<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p>And Julian answers:</p>
<div class='poem'>
<div class='stanza'><span>'Non! C'est la vie! l'Eternelle, la toute
puissante vie!'<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p>It was the supreme, the psychological moment! The duet
continued, but Maxine heard no further words. They echoed and
re-echoed in her brain, they obsessed her, lifting her to a
sublimal state.</p>
<p>Across the room she saw the Italian throw away his cigarette and
forget to replace it; she saw Lize lean forward breathlessly, and
she knew that in fancy she was back in the Quartier Latin when life
was young—when love laughed, and her hair was wreathed with
vine leaves. She saw her at last as a living woman—felt the
grape-juice run down her neck—felt the kisses of the Jacque
Aujet who was ten years dead!</p>
<p>This, then, was the sum of life! Not the holding of fair things,
but the giving of them!</p>
<p>She rose up; her limbs shook, but she paid no heed to physical
strength or weakness; she was on a plane where the soul moved free,
regardless of mortal needs. Neither Max nor Maxine had any place in
her conceptions. She saw Lize, broken but justified, because she
had given when life asked of her; she saw the little Jacqueline,
with the halo of candle-light turning her blonde hair to gold; in a
distant dream she saw the frail, steadfast Madame Salas, and in a
near, poignant vision she saw Blake, and her soul melted within
her.</p>
<p>She conceived the world as one immense censer into which men and
women poured their all, and from which a wondrous white smoke, a
scent incredibly lovely, rose continually, enveloping the
universe.</p>
<p>To give! To give without hope of recompense, without question,
without fear! That was the message of life.</p>
<p>She looked round the little room; she yearned to put out her
arms, to clasp each hand, to touch each forehead with the kiss of
living fellowship. Love consumed her, humility rilled her, she was
a child again, with all things to learn.</p>
<p>The music was reaching its climax, it was filling every corner
of the room, and as she glanced toward the piano in a last long
look, the two voices rose in unison.</p>
<p>Silently—none knowing the revolution within her
soul—none seeing the heights upon which she
walked—Maxine moved to the door and slipped out into the
hall, the picture of the lovers before her eyes, in her ears the
symbolic cry:</p>
<div class='poem'>
<div class='stanza'><span>'C'est la vie! l'Eternelle, la toute
puissante vie!'<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p>Like a being inspired, she passed back into her own
<i>appartement</i>, and there, with a strange high excitement that
was yet mystically calm, entered her little bedroom and lighted
candles until not a shadow was left in all the white circumscribed
space; then, standing in the illumination, like an acolyte who
ministers to some secret rite, she slowly unburdened herself of her
boy's garments.</p>
<p>The task was brief; they fell from her lightly, leaving her fair
and virginal and untrammelled in body, as she was virginal and
untrammelled in mind; and with a sweet gravity she clothed herself,
garment by garment, in the dress of the morning.</p>
<p>Ardent and eager—yet restrained, as befitted a woman aware
of her high place—she left the room and passed down the
Escalier de Sainte-Marie. A rush of cool air came to her across the
plantation, kissing her hot cheeks, the holly bushes whispered
their secrets—which were her secrets as well, the eyes of the
stars looked down, smiling into her eyes. She observed no face in
the thronging faces that passed her; she made her steadfast way to
the one point in the universe that was her goal by right divine.
Even in the hallway of Blake's house she did not stop to question,
but mounted the stairs and knocked upon his door, regardless of the
stormy beating of her heart, the faintness of anticipation that
encompassed her.</p>
<p>A moment passed—a moment or a century; then he was before
her, appealing to the innermost recesses of her being.</p>
<p>He stared at her, as one might stare upon a ghost.</p>
<p>"Maxine!"</p>
<p>Her lips parted, trembling with a pleading tenderness.</p>
<p>"Maxine!" he said again; and now his voice shook, as hers had
shaken in Max's little starlit studio.</p>
<p>It was the cry she had waited for—the confirmation of her
faith. Her hands went out to him; her soul suddenly poured forth
allegiance in look and voice.</p>
<p>"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, and the seaweed that smells like violets!"</p>
<p>His hands clasped hers, his incredulous eyes besought her.
"Maxine, this is some dream?"</p>
<p>"No; it is no dream. We are awake. It is life!"</p>
<br/>
<p>THE END</p>
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