Meanwhile, Max finished his descent of the stairs, his feet gliding with pleasant ease down the polished oak steps, his hand slipping smoothly down the polished banister.  Already the joy of the free life was singing in his veins, already in spirit he was an inmate of this house of many histories.  He darted across the hall, picturing in imagination the last night’s haste of M. Cartel of the violin.  What would he be like, this M. Cartel, when he came to know him in the flesh?  Fat and short and negligent of his figure? or lean and pathetic, as though dinner was not a certainty on every day of the seven?  He laughed a little to himself light-heartedly, and gained the street door with unnecessary, heedless speed—­gained it on the moment that another pedestrian, moving swiftly as himself, entered, bringing him to a sharp consciousness of the moment.

Incomer and outgoer each drew back a step, each laughed, each tendered an apology.

“Pardon, monsieur!”

“Pardon, mademoiselle!”

Then simultaneously a flash of recognition leaped into both faces.

“Why,” cried the girl, “it is the little friend of the friend of Lize!  How droll to meet like this!”

Her candor of speech was disarming; reticence fled before her smile, before her artless friendliness.

“What a strange chance!” said Max.  “What brings you to the rue Mueller, mademoiselle?”

She smiled, and in her smile there was a little touch of pride—­an indefinite pride that glowed about her slender, youthful person like an aura.

“Monsieur, I live in this house—­now.”

“Now?” Sudden curiosity fired him.

“Ah, you do not comprehend!  Last night was sad, monsieur; to-day—­” She stopped.

“To-day, mademoiselle?”

For a second the clear, childish blue of her eyes flashed like a glimpse of spring skies.

“It is too difficult, monsieur—­the explanation.  It is as I say.  Last night was dark; to-day the sun shines!” She laughed, displaying the dazzling whiteness of her teeth.  “And you, monsieur?” she added, gayly.  “You also live here in the rue Mueller?  Yes?  No?” She bent her head prettily, first to one side, then to the other, as she put her questions.

“I hope to live here, mademoiselle.”

“Ah!  Then I wish you, too, the sunshine, monsieur!  Good-day!”

“Good-day, mademoiselle!”

It was over—­the little encounter; she moved into the dark hallway as light, as joyous, as inconsequent as a bird.  And Max passed out into the sharp, crisp air, sensible that the troubling memories of the Bal Tarbarin had in some strange manner been effaced—­that inadvertently he had touched some source whence the waters of life bubbled in eternal, crystal freshness.

In the rue Ronsard he found a disengaged cab, and in ten minutes he was wheeling down into the heart of Paris.  It was nearing the hour of dejeuner, the boulevards were already filling, and the cold, crisp air seemed to vibrate to the bustle of hurrying human creatures seriously absorbed in the thought of food.