CHAPTER XXXV

Who shall depict the soul of woman?  As well essay to number the silk hairs on the moth’s wing, or paint truly the hues in the blown bubble!  The soul of woman dwells apart, subject to no laws, trammelled by no precedent; mysterious in its essence, strong in its very frailty, it passes through many phases to its ultimate end, working as all great agents work, silently and in the dark.

With the passing of Blake, the spiritual Maxine entered upon a new phase—­was arbitrarily forced into a new phase of existence.  The passing of Blake was sudden, tremendous, devastating in its effect, leaving as consequences a moral blackness, a moral chaos.

It was a new Maxine who wakened to the realization of facts; rather, it was a new Max, for it was the masculine, not the feminine ego that turned a set face to circumstance in the moment of desertion—­that sedulously wrapped itself in the garment of pride spun and fashioned in happier hours.

‘Now is the test!  Now is the time!’ Max insisted, drowning by insistence the poignant cry of the heart; and to this watchword he marched against fate.

With set purpose he faced life and its vexed questions in that bitter, precipitate moment.  Again it was the beginning of things; but it was the rue Mueller and not the Gare du Nord that was the scene of action; the May sun fell burning on the Parisian pavements, while the blood of the adventurer ran slow and cold.  The illusions bred of the winter dawn had been dispersed by the light of day; life was no glad enterprise—­no climbing of golden heights, but the barren crossing of a trackless region where no hand proffered guidance and false signs misled the weary eyes.  One weapon alone was necessary in the pursuance of the gray journey—­a sure command—­a sure possession of one’s self!

This thought alone made harmony with the music of the past, and toward its thin sound his ears were strained.  Comradeship had come and gone—­love had come and gone—­the fundamental idea that had lured him to Paris alone remained, stark, colorless, but recognizable!

One must possess one’s self!  And to achieve this supreme good, one must close the senses and seal up the heart, and be as a creature already dead!

To this profound end, Max locked himself in his studio and sat alone while the May morning waxed; to this profound end, moving as in a dream, he at last rose at midday and left the appartement in quest of his customary meal.  What that meal was to consist of—­whether stones or bread—­did not touch his brain, for his mind was solely exercised with wonder at the fact that his will could command the search for food—­could compel his dry lips to the savorless duty of eating.

As he left the little cafe, paying his score, he half expected to see his wonder reflected on the good face of madame the proprietress, and was curiously shocked to receive the usual cheerful smile, the usual cheerful ‘good-day!’ that took no heed of his heavy plight.