2
It was dark and late; and they were still sitting there.
“Shall we go for a walk?” she asked.
He hesitated, with a smile; but she repeated her suggestion:
“Why not, if you care to?”
And he could no longer refuse.
They rose and went along by the back of the house; and Cecile said to the maid, whom she saw sitting with her needle-work by the kitchen-door:
“Greta, fetch me my little black hat, my black-lace shawl and a pair of gloves.”
The servant rose and went into the house. Cecile noticed how a trifle of shyness was emphasized in Quaerts’ hesitation, now that they stood loitering, waiting among the flower-beds. She smiled, plucked a rose and placed it in her waist-band.
“Have the boys gone to bed?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied, still smiling, “long ago.”
The servant returned; Cecile put on the little black hat, threw the lace about her neck, but refused the gloves which Greta offered her:
“No, not these; get me a pair of grey ones....”
The servant went into the house again; and as Cecile looked at Quaerts her gaiety increased. She gave a little laugh:
“What is the matter?” she asked, mischievously, knowing perfectly well what it was.
“Nothing, nothing!” he said, vaguely, and waited patiently until Greta returned.
Then they went through the garden-gate into the Woods. They walked slowly, without speaking; Cecile played with her long gloves, not putting them on.
“Really ...” he began, hesitating.
“Come, what is it?”
“You know; I told you the other day: it’s not right....”
“What isn’t?”
“What we are doing now. You risk too much.”
“Too much, with you?”
“If any one were to see us....”
“And what then?”
He shook his head:
“You are wilful; you know quite well.”
She clinched her eyes; her mouth grew serious; she pretended to be a little angry:
“Listen, you mustn’t be anxious if I’m not. I am doing no harm. Our walks are not secret: Greta at least knows about them. And, besides, I am free to do as I please.”
“It’s my fault: the first time we went for a walk in the evening, it was at my request....”
“Then do penance and be good; come now, without scruple, at my request,” she said, with mock emphasis.
He yielded, feeling far too happy to wish to make any sacrifice to a convention which at that moment did not exist.
They walked on silently. Cecile’s sensations always came to her in shocks of surprise. So it had been when Jules had grown suddenly angry with her; so also, midway on the stair, after that conversation at dinner of circles of sympathy. And now, precisely in the same way, with the shock of sudden revelation, came this new sensation, that after all she was not suffering so seriously as she had at first thought; that her agony, being a voluptuousness, could not be a martyrdom; that she was happy, that happiness had come about her in the fine air of his atmosphere, because they were together, together.... Oh, why wish for anything more, above all for things less pure? Did he not love her and was not his love already a fact and was not his love earthly enough for her, now that it was a fact? Did he not love her with a tenderness which feared for anything that might trouble her in the world, through her ignoring that world and wandering about with him alone in the dark? Did he not love her with tenderness, but also with the lustre of his soul’s divinity, calling her Madonna and by this title—unconsciously, perhaps, in his simplicity—making her the equal of all that was divine in him? Did he not love her? Heavens above, did he not love her? Well, what did she want more? No, no, she wanted nothing more: she was happy, she shared happiness with him; he gave it to her just as she gave it to him; it was a sphere that moved with them wherever they went, seeking their way along the darkling paths of the Woods, she leaning on his arm, he leading her, for she could see nothing in the dark, which yet was not dark, but pure light of their happiness. And so it was as if it were not evening, but day, noonday, noonday in the night, hour of light in the dusk!