“You have sent for him!” she exclaimed.

“I have!  Oh, I may be weak, but listen! listen!  In the old days when the world was religious and people observed Lent, there was always Mi-Careme, was there not?  Well, I have fasted, and now I must feast.”

They gazed at each other; the one aglow with anticipation, the other with curiosity.

“You have sent for him—­at last?”

“I have sent a telegram with these words:  ’Meet me at midday on Tuesday in the Place de la Concorde.—­MAXINE.’”

“And this is Friday,” said Jacqueline.  “In four days’ time you will see him again!”

“Again!” Max spoke the word inaudibly.

“And—­when you meet?” Jacqueline’s blue eyes were sharp as needle-points.

Max colored to the temples. “Ma cherie, I have not even thought!  All I know is that youth comes but once, and that youth is courage.  I have been a coward—­I am going to be brave.”

“You are going—­to confess?”

Max said nothing, but with her woman’s instinct for such things, Jacqueline read assent in the silence.

“Then the end is assured!  He will take you—­with your will, or without!  Monsieur Max, or the princess!”

Max shook his head.  “I do not think so.  But that is outside the moment—­that is the afterward.  First there must be midday and the Place de la Concorde!  First there must be my Mi-Careme—­my hour!”

“Ah!” whispered the little Jacqueline, “your hour!” And who shall say what memories glinted through her quick brain—­what conjurings of the first waltz with M. Cartel at the Moulin de la Galette, and the last waltz at the Bal Tabarin, when she stepped through the tawdry doorway into her paradise?  “Your hour!  And where will it be spent—­madame?”

“Ah!” Max’s eyes sought heaven or, in lieu of heaven, M. Cartel’s ceiling; Max’s hands freed Jacqueline’s and flew out in ecstatic gesture.  “Ah, that is for the gods to say, cherie!  And the gods know best.”

CHAPTER XXXIX

Rapture gilded the world; rapture trembled on the air like the vibrations of a chord struck from some celestial harp.  Coming as a divine gift, the first autumnal frost had lighted upon Paris; during the night fainting August had died, and with the dawn, golden September had been born to the city.

Blake, waiting at the foot of the Cours la Reine, consumed with anticipation, drank in the freshness of the morning as though it were a draught of wine; Maxine, crossing the Place de la Concorde, lifted her face to the sky, striving to quiet her pulses, to cool her hot cheeks in the wash of gentle air.

Her hour had arrived; none could hinder its approach, as none could mar its beauty.  She scarcely recognized the earth upon which she trod; the fierce excitement, the melting tenderness of her moods warred until emotion ran riot and the sifting of her feelings became a task impossible.