Once again, as on the day she had first visited the appartement and made acquaintance with the old painter and his wife, dread of some mysterious force filled Maxine.  What marvellous power was this that could smile secure at poverty and oblivion—­that could cast a halo of true emotion over a Bal Tabarin?

“It is not true!” she cried out, in answer to herself.

“Not true, madame?  Why did I choose Lucien, who is nothing to look upon—­who is an artist and penniless?”

She ran across to Maxine; she caught her by the shoulders.

“Oh, madame!  How beautiful you are—­and how blind!  You bandage your eyes, and you tighten the knot.  Oh, my God, if I could but open it for you!”

“And reduce me to kisses and folly and tears?”

“One may drift into heaven on a kiss!” Jacqueline’s voice was like some precious metal, molten and warm.

“Or one may slip into hell!  Do you think I have not known what it is to kiss?  It was from a kiss I fled to-night.”

Her tone was fervent as it was reckless, and Jacqueline stood aghast.  The entire denial of love was comprehensible to her, if inexplicable; but her mind refused this problem of realization and rejection.

“Madame—­” she began, quickly, but she paused on the word, listening; the sound of Max’s door opening and closing came distinctly to the ear, followed by a footstep descending the stairs.  “Monsieur Edouard!” she whispered, finger on lip.

Maxine, also, had heard, and a look of relief broke the tension of her expression.

“He is gone.  That is well!”

Something in her look, in her voice startled Jacqueline anew.

“Why do you speak like that, madame?  Why do you look so cold?”

“I am sane again, Jacqueline.”

“And Monsieur Edouard?  Is he sane, I wonder?  Is he cold?  Oh, madame, he loves you!”

“I am going to prove his love.”

“But, madame!  Oh, madame, love isn’t a matter of proving; it is an affair of giving—­giving—­giving with all the heart.”

“Trust me, Jacqueline!  I understand.  Good-night!”

Jacqueline framed no word, but her eyes spoke many things.

“Say good-night, Jacqueline!  Forget that you have entertained a mad woman!”

“Good-night, madame!”

But the little Jacqueline, left alone, shook her head many times, leaving her heap of blue muslin neglected upon the floor.

“Poor child!” she said softly to herself.  “Poor child!  Poor child!”

CHAPTER XXXIV

It was midway between the hours of nine and ten on the morning following.  Max was standing in the studio; the easel, still bearing the portrait, had been pushed into a corner, its face to the wall; everywhere the warm sun fell upon a rigid severity of aspect, as though the room had instinctively been bared for the enacting of some scene.