CHAPTER XIX

They dined with a full measure of satisfaction; for with his invitation to a feast, your Parisian accepts an obligation to bring forth his best in gayety, in conversation, in good-will; and it might well have happened that Blake, spending ten times as much money upon guests of his own world, might have lacked the glow, the sense of success, that filled him in the giving of this dinner to an unknown musician and a little blonde-haired Montmartroise.

They dined; and then, because the winds were still wintry and coffee could not yet be sipped outside cafe doors, they betook themselves to the little theatre of the ‘Trianon Lyrique’ on the Boulevard Rochechouart, where for an infinitesimal sum the bourgeoisie may sit in the stalls and hear light opera conscientiously sung.

As it was a gala evening, Blake reserved a box, and the little Jacqueline sat in the place of honor, neat and dainty to the point of perfection, with a small black jacket fitting closely to her figure, and a bunch of violets, costing ten centimes, pinned coquettishly into her lace jabot.  They sat through the performance in a happy mood of toleration, applauding whenever applause might be bestowed, generously silent when anything tempted adverse criticism; and between the acts they smoked and drank liqueurs in company with the good Montmartre shopkeepers—­the soldiers—­the young clerks and the young girls who formed the crowd in the lounge.

But all things end; the curtain fell on the last act of Les Cloches de Corneville, and not without a pleasant, passing sigh, the four left the theatre.

The boulevard teemed with life as they made their way into the open; a certain intoxication seemed blown along the thoroughfare on the light spring wind; a restless energy tingled in the blood.

On the steps of the little theatre, Blake looked back at his party.

‘The night was young!  What would they say to supper?’

Jacqueline’s eyes sparkled, but she looked at M. Cartel, and regretfully M. Cartel shook his head.

’Alas!  He was expecting a friend—­a composer, to call upon him before midnight.’

Jacqueline betrayed no disappointment; with a charming air she echoed the regret, the shake of the head, and slipped a confiding hand through M. Cartel’s arm.

Then followed the leave-taking—­the thanks and disclaimers—­the promises of future meetings—­and at last the lovers moved out into the crowd—­M.  Cartel, cheery and brisk, humming the tunes of ‘Les Cloches,’ the little Jacqueline clinging to his arm, smiling up into his ugly face.

Max watched them for a moment with a deep intentness, then wheeled round swiftly and caught Blake’s arm.

“Ned!  Take me somewhere!  I would forget myself!”

“What troubles you, boy?  Not the thought of the picture?”