Max laughed, coming back to the moment.
"Only revolutionary in my own cause! I fight myself for myself. You take my meaning?"
"Not in the very least! But I accept your statement; I like its brave ring. You are your own romance."
"I am my own romance."
"Let's drink to it, then! Your romance—whatever it may be!" He raised the half-empty tumbler, drank a little, and handed it across the table.
Max laughed and drank as well. "My romance—whatever it may be!"
"Whatever it may be! And now for that breath of air we promised ourselves! It's close on ten o'clock."
So the meal ended; coats were found, candles blown out, and a last proprietary inspection of the appartement made by the aid of matches.
They ran down the long, smooth staircase, and, stepping into the quiet, starlit rue Müller, linked arms and began their descent upon Paris with as much ease, as nice a familiarity as though life for both of them had been passed in the shadow of the Sacré-Coeur.
On the Boulevard de Clichy the usual confusion of lights and humanity greeted them like welcoming arms, and with the same agreeable nonchalance they yielded to the embrace.