this confessed love poured in upon her soul. She saw the
halo about the head of the little singer, she appreciated the sublime
giving of herself that cried in the music of the song. It was no mere
sentiment on the lips of this fair child, it was the proclamation of a
tremendous fact.

She leaned back against the wall, lips set, hands clasped. She clung to
the rock of her theories like a drowning man, and like the drowning man
she realized the imminence of the inundation that threatened her.

The music swelled, and now it was not Jacqueline alone who sang; M.
Cartel's voice rose, completing, perfecting the higher feminine notes,
blending with them as the music of wind or running water might harmonize
with the singing of a bird. It was not art but nature that was at work
in the words:

'Nous sommes tous les amants, fideles a leur serment! Ah, le divin
roman!

* * * * *

Nous sommes toutes les ames que brule le sainte flamme du desire!
Ah, la parole ideale dont s'enivre mon corps tout entier!
Dis encore ta chanson de delice! Ta chanson victorieuse, ta chanson
de printemps!'

The duet wore on, enthralling in its closeness to common human life,
with its touches of tears, its touches of laughter, its hints of
tenderness and bursts of passion. Not one face but had softened in
comprehension as Louise painted the picture of her home--of the gentle
father, the scolding mother, the little daily frictions that wear
patience thin; not one heart but had leaped when passion broke a way
through the song, mounting, mounting as upon wings, until Louise in her
ecstasy of love and joy and incredulity exclaims:

'C'est le paradis! C'est une feerie!'

And Julian answers:

'Non! C'est la vie! l'Eternelle, la toute puissante vie!'

It was the supreme, the psychological moment! The duet continued, but
Maxine heard no further words. They echoed and re-echoed in her brain,
they obsessed her, lifting her to a sublimal state.

Across the room she saw the Italian throw away his cigarette and forget
to replace it; she saw Lize lean forward breathlessly, and she knew that
in fancy she was back in the Quartier Latin when life was young--when
love laughed, and her hair was wreathed with vine leaves. She saw her at
last as a living woman--felt the grape-juice run down her neck--felt the
kisses of the Jacque Aujet who was ten years dead!

This, then, was the sum