“There is nothing, there is nothing. I am mistaken. I am imagining something that doesn’t exist.”
She had not seen them together for two months; and she knew, had understood from a word dropped here and there, that Van der Welcke had not seen Marianne during those two months which had passed since that Sunday evening. And now, suddenly, she was struck by it: the shy, almost glad hesitation while the girl was standing at the door of Constance’ drawing-room; her unconcealed delight at being able to come back to this house; the almost unnatural joy with which she had sobbed at Constance’ knee ... until Van der Welcke came in, after doubtless recognizing the sound of her voice in his little smoking-room, as transparent as a child, with his clumsy excuse of searching for a newspaper. And now at once she was struck by it: the almost insuppressible affection with which they had greeted each other, with a certain smiling radiance that beamed from them, involuntarily, irresistibly, unconsciously.... But still Constance thought:
“I am mistaken, there is nothing; and I am imagining something that doesn’t exist.”
And the thought passed away, that they were really in love with each other; only this time there remained a faint wonder, a doubt, which had never been there before. And, while she talked about Nice, it struck her that Van der Welcke was still there ... that he was staying on in her drawing-room, a thing which he never did except when Paul was there, or Gerrit.... He sat on, without saying much; but that happy smile never left his lips.... Yet she still thought:
“I am mistaken; it is only imagination; there is nothing, or at most a little mutual attraction; and what harm is there in that?”
But, be this as it might, she, who was so jealous where her son was concerned, now felt not the least shade of jealousy amid her wondering doubts. Yes, it was all gone, any love, passion, sentiment that she had ever entertained for Henri. It was quite dead.... And, now that he smiled like that, she noticed, with a sort of surprise, how young he was:
“He is thirty-eight,” she thought, “and looks even younger.”
As he sat there, calmly, always with the light of a smile on his face, it struck her that he was very young, with a healthy, youthful freshness, and that he had not a wrinkle, not a grey hair in his head.... His blue eyes were almost the eyes of a child. Even Addie’s eyes, though they were like his father’s, were more serious, had an older look.... And, at the sight of that youthfulness, she thought herself old, even though she was now showing Marianne the pretty photograph from Nice.... Yes, she felt old; and she was hardly surprised—if it was so, if she was not mistaken—at that youthfulness in her husband and at his possible love for that young girl.... Marianne’s youth seemed to be nearer to his own youth.... And sometimes it was so evident that she almost ceased doubting and promised herself to be careful, not to encourage Marianne, not to invite her any more....
Unconscious: was it unconscious, thought Constance, on their part? Had they ever exchanged a more affectionate word, a pressure of the hand, a glance? Had they already confessed it to each other ... and to themselves? And a delicate intuition told her:
“No, they have confessed nothing to each other; no, they have not even confessed anything to themselves.”