2
When Cecile was seated she found Quaerts sitting on her right. Then her disappointment vanished, the disappointment which she had felt at not being taken in to dinner by him; but her look remained cold, as usual. And yet she had what she wished; the expectation with which she had come to this dinner was fulfilled. Mrs. Hoze had seen Cecile at the Van Attemas’ and had gladly undertaken to restore the young widow to society. Cecile knew that Quaerts was a frequent visitor at Mrs. Hoze’s; she had heard from Amélie that he was invited to the dinner; and she had accepted. That Mrs. Hoze, remembering that Cecile had met Quaerts before, had placed him next to her was easy to understand.
Cecile was very inquisitive about herself. How would she feel? At least interested: she could not disguise that from herself. She was certainly interested in him, remembering what Jules had said, what Amélie had said. She already felt that behind the mere sportsman there lurked another, whom she longed to know. Why should she? What concern was it of hers? She could not tell; but, in any case, as a matter of curiosity, as a puzzle, it awoke her interest. And, at the same time, she remained on her guard, for she did not think that his visit to her was strictly in order; and there were stories in which the name of that married woman was coupled with his.
She succeeded in freeing herself from her conversation with the general, who seemed to feel called upon to entertain her, and it was she who spoke first to Quaerts:
“Have you begun to give Jules his riding-lessons?” she asked, with a smile.
He looked at her, evidently a little surprised at her voice and her smile, which were both new to him. He returned a bare answer:
“Yes, mevrouw, we were at the riding-school yesterday....”
She at once thought him clumsy, to let the conversation drop like that; but he enquired with that slight shyness which became a charm in him who was so manly:
“So you are going out again, mevrouw?”
She thought—she had indeed thought so before—that his questions were sometimes questions which people do not ask. This was one of the strange things about him.
“Yes,” she replied, simply, not knowing what else to say.
“Forgive me,” he said, seeing that his words had embarrassed her a little. “I asked, because ...”
“Because?” she echoed, with wide-open eyes.
He took courage and explained:
“When Dolf spoke of you, he used always to say that you lived so quietly.... And I could never picture you to myself returning to society, mixing with many people; I had formed an idea of you; and it now seems that this idea was a mistaken one.”
“An idea?” she asked. “What idea?”
“Perhaps you will be angry when I tell you. Perhaps, even as it is, you are none too well pleased with me!” he replied, jestingly.
“I have not the slightest reason to be either pleased or displeased with you,” she jested in return. “But tell me, what was your idea?”
“Then you are interested in it?”
“If you will answer candidly, yes. But you must be candid!” and she threatened him with her finger.
“Well,” he began, “I thought of you as a very cultured woman, as a very interesting woman—I still think all that—and ... as a woman who cared nothing for the world beyond her own sphere; and this ... this I can no longer think. And I feel almost inclined to say, at the risk of your looking on me as very strange, that I am sorry no longer to be able to think of you in that way. I would almost rather not have met you here....”
He laughed, to soften what might sound strange in his words. She looked at him, her eyelashes flickering with amazement, her lips half-opened; and suddenly it struck her that she was looking into his eyes for the first time. She looked into his eyes and saw that they were a dark, very dark grey around the black depth of the pupil. There was something in his eyes, she could not say what, but something magnetic, as though she could never again take away her own from them.
“How strange you can be sometimes!” she said mechanically: the words came intuitively.
“Oh, please don’t be angry!” he almost implored her. “I was so glad when you spoke kindly to me. You were a little distant to me when I saw you last; and I should be so sorry if I put you out. Perhaps I am strange, but how could I possibly be commonplace with you? How could I possibly, even if you were to take offence?... Have you taken offence?”
“I ought to, but I suppose I must forgive you, if only for your candour!” she said, laughing. “Otherwise your remarks were anything but gallant.”
“And yet I did not mean it ungallantly.”
“Oh, no doubt!” she jested.
She remembered that she was at a big dinner-party. The guests ranged before and around her; the footmen waiting behind; the light of the candles gleaming on the silver and touching the glass with all the hues of the rainbow; on the table prone mirrors, like sheets of water surrounded by flowers, little lakes amidst moss-roses and lilies of the valley. She sat silent a moment, still smiling, looking at her hand, a pretty hand, like a white precious thing upon the tulle of her gown: one of the fingers bore several rings, scintillating sparks of blue and white.
The general turned to her again; they exchanged a few words; the general was delighted that Mrs. van Even’s right-hand neighbour was keeping her entertained and enabling him to get on quietly with his dinner. Quaerts turned to the lady on his right.
Both of them were glad when they were able to resume their conversation:
“What were we talking about just now?” she asked.
“I know!” he replied, mischievously.
“The general interrupted us.”
“You were not angry with me!” he jested.
“Oh, of course,” she replied, laughing softly, “it was about your idea of me, was it not? Why could you no longer picture me returning to society?”
“I thought that you had become a person apart.”
“But why?”
“From what Dolf said, from what I myself thought, when I saw you.”
“And why are you now sorry that I am not ‘a person apart,’ as you call it?” she asked, still laughing.
“From vanity; because I made a mistake. And yet perhaps I have not made a mistake....”
They looked at each other; and both of them, although each thought it in a different way, now thought the same thing, namely, that they must be careful with their words, because they were speaking of something very delicate and tender, something as frail as a soap-bubble, which could easily break if they spoke of it too loudly; the mere breath of their words might be sufficient. Yet she ventured to ask:
“And why ... do you believe ... that perhaps ... you are not mistaken?”
“I don’t quite know. Perhaps because I wish it so. Perhaps, too, because it is so true as to leave no room for doubt. Oh, yes, I am almost sure that I judged rightly! Do you know why? Because otherwise I should have hidden myself and been commonplace; and I find this impossible with you. I have given you more of myself in this short moment than I have given people whom I have known for years in the course of all those years. Therefore surely you must be a person apart.”
“What do you mean by ‘a person apart’?”
He smiled, he opened his eyes; she looked into them again, deeply.
“You understand, surely!” he said.
Fear for the delicate thing that might break came between them again. They understood each other as with a freemasonry of feeling. Her eyes were magnetically held upon his.
“You are very strange!” she again said, automatically.
“No,” he said, calmly, shaking his head, with his eyes in hers. “I am certain that I am not strange to you, even though you may think so for the moment.”
She was silent.
“I am so glad to be able to talk to you like this!” he whispered. “It makes me very happy. And see, no one knows anything of it. We are at a big dinner; the people next to us can even catch our words; and yet there is not one among them who understands us or grasps the subject of our conversation. Do you know the reason?”
“No,” she murmured.
“I will tell you; at least, I think it is like this. Perhaps you know better, for you must know things better than I, you are so much subtler. I personally believe that each person has a circle about him, an atmosphere, and that he meets other people who have circles or atmospheres about them, sympathetic or antipathetic to his own.”
“This is pure mysticism!” she said.
“No,” he replied, “it is quite simple. When the two circles are antipathetic, each repels the other; but, when they are sympathetic, they glide and overlap in smaller or larger curves of sympathy. In some cases the circles almost coincide, but they always remain separate.... Do you really think this so very mystical?”
“One might call it the mysticism of sentiment. But ... I have thought something of the sort myself....”
“Yes, yes, I can understand that,” he continued, calmly, as if he expected it. “I believe that those around us would not be able to understand us, because we two alone have sympathetic circles. But my atmosphere is of a much grosser texture than yours, which is very delicate.”
She was silent again, remembering her former aversion to him: did she still feel it?
“What do you think of my theory?” he asked.
She looked up; her white fingers trembled in the tulle of her gown. She made a poor effort to smile:
“I think you go too far!” she stammered.
“You think I rush into hyperbole?”
She would have liked to say yes, but could not:
“No,” she said; “not that.”
“Do I bore you?...”
She looked at him, looked deep into his eyes. She shook her head, by way of saying no. She would have liked to say that he was too unconventional just now; but she could not find the words. A faintness oppressed her whole being. The table, the people, the whole dinner-party appeared to her as through a haze of light. When she recovered herself again, she perceived that a pretty woman opposite had been staring at her and was now looking away, out of politeness. She did not know how or why this interested her, but she asked Quaerts:
“Who is the lady over there, in pale blue, with the dark hair?”
She saw that he started.
“That is young Mrs. Hijdrecht!” he said, calmly, a little distantly.
She too was perturbed; she turned pale; her fan flapped nervously to and fro in her fingers.
He had named the woman whom rumour said to be his mistress.