CHAPTER XXXI

Nothing less than absolute conviction can shake a strong nature.  A wave of doubt swept over Maxine as her little neighbor’s words died out and the door closed, leaving her to silence and solitude; but for all her folly, she was strong, and strength such as hers is not shaken by the shaft of a Jacqueline, however cunningly sped.

She sat for long, troubled, perplexed—­almost, it might have seemed, fearful of herself—–­ but gradually the strength asserted itself, the fine, blind faith within her asserted itself in a wave of reaction.

Some small weakness had been hers, she admitted—­some small shrinking from the truth of things!  She had been remiss in the application of her test, allowing the dream to oust the reality in that fascinating hour with Blake.  Remiss, but no more!

At this stage in her meditations, she returned to the balcony, studying the sky anew—­drinking in confidence from the glory of the stars, the slight grace of the crescent moon.

She became the boy again in mind and heart, enthusiastic, assured, thirsting for action; she looked down upon Paris frankly and without defiance—­or so she deemed; and the old, wild suggestions of ’liberty, equality, brotherhood,’ seemed to rise, ghostly, from its stones.

Enthusiasm is ever a gracious, pardonable thing, because in its essentials are youth and zeal and all high, white-hot qualities whose roots strike not in the base earth.  Any sage, nay, any simpleton, seeing Maxine upon the balcony, could have told her what a fool she was; but who would have told it without a pause, without a sigh for the divinity of such folly?

Next day she rose, refreshed of body, because refreshed of soul; and arrayed in the garments of her strength, went forth to prove her faith.

Max it was—­Max of the quick, lithe feet and eager glance—­who left the rue Mueller, heedless of breakfast, and began his descent upon Paris, making straight for the heart of the citadel with the true instinct of the raider.

Up to this moment, Blake’s rooms had been a mere name, lying as they did within the forbidden precincts of the fashionable world, but to-day no corner of Paris offered terrors, for the simple reason that Paris itself had come to be incorporated in Blake, and that, being strong enough to dare Blake, Max was strong enough to dare the city.

Self-analysis played no part in his mental process as he swung down the steep, familiar streets.  A singleness of purpose, high as it was foolish, possessed and inspired him.  He loved Blake with a wonderful, unsexual love, and he yearned to lay himself at his feet, to offer him of his best—­gifts of the gods, given with free hands from a free heart.

Something of the sweet foolishness must have shown upon his face, for when he reached his destination, Blake’s concierge, usually a taciturn individual, offered him a welcome as he stepped from the brilliant sunshine into the dim cool hallway, and gave him the information he needed with a good grace.