All was clear, all was understood in that brief reply.  A wide contentment, vitalized by excitement, lifted the soul of Blake.  Leaning over the balcony railing, drinking in the music of M. Cartel, more than a little of heaven opened to him; a unique emotion thrilled him—­a consciousness of sublimity, a sense of being part of some unfathomable yet perfect scheme.  The music wove its story; the lovers became one with his own existence, as he himself was one with the stars above him and the lights below.  He followed every note, and in his own brain was spun the subtle thread that bound Julian and Louise; his own fancy ran the gamut of their emotions from mere human reminiscence to overwhelming passion.

As he listened, his first hearing of M. Cartel’s fiddle crept back upon the feet of memory, and with it the recollection of the boy’s rapture, the boy’s wayward breaking of the spell and denial of the truth of love.  Cautiously he moved his head and stole a glance at his companion, summing up the contrast between the present and the past.

Maxine was leaning forward, in thrall to the music:  her gray cloak had fallen slightly back, displaying her white dress—­her white neck; her hands were clasped, her eyes—­the woman’s eyes, the eyes of mystery—­gazed into profound space.

He held himself rigid; he dared not stir, lest he should brush her cloak; he scarce dared breathe, lest he should break her dream.  A feeling akin to adoration awakened in him, and as if in expression of the emotion, the violin of M. Cartel cried out the supreme confession of the lovers, Louise’s enraptured ‘C’est le Paradis!  C’est une feerie!’, and Julian’s answer, intoxicating as wine, ’Non!  C’est la vie! l’Eternelle, la toute-puissante vie!’

And there, with the whimsicality of the artist, the bow of M. Cartel was lifted, and sharp, pregnant silence fell upon the night.

Blake turned to Maxine; and Maxine, with lips parted, eyes dark with thought, met his regard.

For one second her impulse seemed to sway to words, her body to yield to some gracious, drooping enchantment; then, swiftly as M. Cartel had called up silence, she recalled herself—­straightened her body and lifted her head.

“Monsieur,” she said, with dignity, “I thank you for your kindness and for your companionship—­and I bid you good-night!”

The swiftness of his dismissal scarcely touched Blake.  Already she was his sovereign lady—­her look a command, her word paramount.

“As you will, princess!”

She held out her hand; and taking, he bowed over, but did not kiss it.

She smiled, conceiving his desire and his restraint.

“I shall convey to Max how charmingly you have entertained me, monsieur and, perhaps—­” Her voice dropped to its softest note.

Blake looked up.

“Perhaps, princess—?”

She smiled again, half diffidently.  “Nothing, monsieur!  Good-night!”