"Verheyden," she said, "do something heroic: submit!"
"To writhe on the rack is not to resist," he said bitterly.
"But how sublime," she urged, "if, instead of writhing, one could, in the midst of pain, wear a serene face, and rejoice in a serene heart."
"It is easy for you to talk of serenity," he said impatiently. "You have all you want. You live in music as I lived in it. And what an enchanted life we lived together! Do you remember the first time I saw you? Three years ago, it was, on the eve of the Assumption. You sat on the steps of the altar and listened while Laurie played. I told him you looked like a soprano, and he said you were one, that you had a voice like a violin. Do you remember how I called you up?"
"Yes," she said, smiling at the remembrance. "No one ever accompanied like you. The voice went floating on your music like a shallop on the water. Your interludes were nothing more than spray or little wavelets, or like a half-hushed bubbling laughter underneath the bows."
"And you," he said, "you never learned: you sing of nature, and 'tis art that tries to reach you. Laurie always said your roulades were as if you couldn't help them; that he had to look at the score to be sure you didn't make them up as you went along. Come, now, let us try."
In the act of turning eagerly to the piano, he recollected and stopped.
She touched his arm with an earnest hand. "Delight is dear," she said; "but never so dear as when we find it in dark places. Let me speak to you of myself, Verheyden, as I have never spoken to anyone else. You think my life has been a tranquil one, but you mistake. None, or but few, knowing, I have gone through tragedies that would delight a romance writer. What I read is dull to what I have experienced. If I am calm, it is because I have nothing left to suffer. At twenty-five—you didn't think me so old because I am small and blonde—at twenty five I have exhausted the pains of life. And, Verheyden, believe me, contradictory as it may sound, the highest rapture that earth can give is distilled from its sharpest pains. It is true, even here, that those who weep are blessed. When the strong man, Jesus, rends this ravenous nature of ours, after some days we find sweetness. O Verheyden! go to the Lord with your burden, and he will give you rest. Do not fill your soul with discord because your hand can no more awaken harmony. That loftier harmony nothing can disturb without your consent. Is it not beautiful to think of—the security of the soul? Remember, Verheyden, the lightnings may strike us, but our souls shall not be smitten; and they shall not be drowned though the waters cover us; the earth may burn, but our souls shall not be consumed; and they shall not be crushed though the heavens fall on us. When I think of these things, I laugh at fear of anything save sin; I am lifted; my body seems dissolving like frost in fire. I cannot comprehend the sadness of your face. I am glad! I am glad!"
He looked at her as she stood there pale and shining, then stretched his hand, and, at a venture, touched the scarf she wore. It didn't scorch him.
Monsieur Léon came home at sunset, and with him Auguste, the son of the house. Monsieur was one of his wife's enthusiasms. "He is a misanthrope," she would say delightedly. "What a listless air! he cares for nothing. How mournful and hopeless his eyes! And though his hair is white, he is but little over fifty. He is full of poetry and sublimity and learning; but it is frozen in. His early days were unfortunate—a poor gentleman, you know—and all his life till he was forty was a struggle for bread. At forty be inherited his property. Then he thought to live, my poor Auguste! We went to Paris, which we had left as children. Ah! well. But he had aspirations, and pressed on toward Italy. There was the Medean chaldron, he said. He was ill when we reached there, and saw nothing till one evening he was convalescent, and I took him by the hand and led him out on to our balcony. It was a May-moonlight in Venice. The earth can do nothing more. He stood and looked till I thought he had lost his breath, then clasped his hands over his heart as though he had a great pang, and cried out, 'O my lost youth!' He would look no more. He went in and sat with his face hidden in his hands. It was too late. The next day we started and came back. He looked at nothing as we passed, but sat in the gondola or carriage with his face hidden. He said it was like setting a feast before the corpse of a man who had died of starvation. So romantic!" sighs madame, smoothing the lace ruffles from her little hands.