“I’m waiting till you have gone.”
Long after he had shut the door Thérèse had remained lying on the sofa smoking cigarettes, and staring at the great letters of blackened gilt, fixed to the balcony opposite: then she had torn open the first envelope. No: it could not be that sweet little fool, that light-headed little Convent girl who had conceived these words of flame. It could not be that chilly little heart,—for such it was, and Thérèse ought to know!—which had poured forth that Song of Songs, that long ecstatic lamentation of a woman possessed, of a body almost stricken down with joy, from the first encounter.
“... When I met him, I could not believe it was he: he was chasing one of the dogs and shouting. How could I have imagined it was the invalid ... but he isn’t an invalid: he is simply taking precautions, because of his family history. He isn’t even delicate,—only rather thin: and of course he’s used to being spoilt and pampered ... you would not recognise me: I actually go and fetch his overcoat as soon as it gets cooler.”
If Bernard had come back into the room that minute, he would have noticed that the woman sitting on the bed was not his wife, but some one he did not know, a strange and nameless creature. She threw away her cigarette, and tore open a second envelope.
“... I don’t care how long I have to wait: I don’t mind what they say: indeed, I don’t mind anything since I have been in love. They are keeping me at Saint Clair, but Argelouse is not so far off that Jean and I cannot meet. Do you remember the pigeon-shooters’ hut? Why, it was you, darling, that chose beforehand the places where I was to know such happiness.... Oh, please don’t think we do anything we should not. He is so considerate. You have no idea what a boy of his kind is like. He has studied and read a great deal, like you: but I don’t mind that in a young man and I never think of teasing him about it. I do not know what I would give to be as clever as you are. Oh, my darling, I wonder what your happiness can be like, if the mere approach to it is so exquisite. When I sit beside him in the hut, where you used to like to take our lunch, and his hand lies still on my heart,—and I put my hand on his (it is what he calls: ‘the last caress allowed’), I feel happiness within me like something that I could touch. I tell myself that there is yet another joy beyond this one; and when Jean goes away, quite pale, the memory of our caresses, the thought of the next day and all that it will bring, makes me deaf to the complaints and prayers and insults of those poor people who do not know ... have never known: Darling, forgive me: I talk to you about this happiness as if you did not know it either: and yet I am only a novice beside you: and also I am sure that you will be on our side against these cruel people.”
Thérèse opened the third envelope: only a brief scrawl.
“Do come, darling: they have separated us, and I am not allowed out of sight. They believe that you will be on their side. I have said that I will abide by your judgement. I will explain everything: he is not ill.... I am happy though I suffer. I am happy to suffer because of him and his suffering is a joy to me because it is the proof of his love for me....”
Thérèse read no further. As she slipped the sheet into the envelope, she saw a photograph inside it that she had not noticed; she stood near the window and examined the face: it was that of a youth whose head, owing to his thick hair, seemed too large for him. Thérèse recognized the place where the photograph had been taken: an embankment on which Jean Azévédo stood up like David (behind him was a stretch of heath on which sheep were pasturing). His coat was over his arm: and his shirt a little open ... (“the last caress allowed”). Thérèse raised her eyes and was amazed at the reflection of her face in the mirror. It cost her an effort to unclench her teeth and swallow. She rubbed her temples and forehead with eau-de-Cologne.
“She knows that joy ... what about me, why shouldn’t I know it too?” The photograph lay on the table: she caught the glitter of a pin beside it.
“I did that. I actually did that.” ... In the jolting train, now moving faster down a gradient, Thérèse said slowly to herself: “It is two years ago since, in that hotel bedroom, I picked up the pin and ran it through the boy’s photograph in the region of the heart,—not violently, but coolly, as if I was doing something quite ordinary;—and then I threw the photograph down the lavatory; and pulled the plug.”