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!
3
And the darkness was light; the night dawned with light which beamed on every side. Calmly it beamed, the light, like one solitary planet, beaming with the soft radiance of purity, bright in a heaven of still, white, silver light, a heaven where they walked along milky ways of light and music; it beamed and sounded beneath their feet; it welled in seas of ether high above their heads and beamed and sounded there, high and clear. And they were alone in their heaven, in their infinite heaven, which was as space, endless beneath them and above and around them, with endless spaces of light and music, of light that was music. Their heaven lay eternal on every side with blissful vistas of white radiance, fading away in lustre and vanishing landscapes, like oases of flowers and plants beside waters of light, still and clear and hushed with peace. For its peace was the ether in which all desire is dissolved and becomes transparent and crystal; and their life was a limpid existence in unruffled peace; they walked on, in heavenly sympathy of fellowship, close together, hemmed in one narrow circle, a circle of radiance which embraced them both. Barely was there a recollection in them of the world which had died out in the glitter of their heaven; there was naught in them but the ecstasy of their love, which had become their soul, as if they no longer had any soul, as if they were only love; and, when they looked about them and into the light, they saw that their heaven, in which their happiness was the light, was nothing but their love, and they saw that the landscapes—the flowers and plants by waters of light—were nothing but their love and that the endless space, the eternities of light and space, of spaces full of light and music, stretching on every hand, beneath them and above and around them, that all this was nothing but their love, which had grown into heaven and happiness.
And now they came into the very midst, to the very sun-centre, the very goal which Cecile had once foreseen, concealed in the distance, in the irradiance of innate divinity. Up to the very goal they stepped; and on every side it shot its endless rays into each and every eternity, as if their love were becoming the centre of the universe...