1

Cecile had passed those three weeks in a state of ignorance which had filled her with pain. She had, it is true, heard through Dolf that Quaerts was away shooting, but beyond that nothing. A thrill of joy electrified her when the door behind the screen opened and she saw him enter the room. He was standing in front of her before she could recover herself; and, as she was trembling, she did not rise, but, still sitting, reached out her hand to him, her fingers quivering imperceptibly.

“I have been out of town,” he began.

“So I heard.”

“Have you been well all this time?”

“Quite well, thank you.” [154]

He noticed that she was somewhat pale, that she had a light blue shadow under her eyes and that there was lassitude in all her movements. But he came to the conclusion that there was nothing extraordinary in this, or that perhaps she merely looked pale in the creamy whiteness of her soft, white dress, like silky wool, even as her figure became yet slighter in the constraint of the scarf about her waist, with its long white fringe falling to her feet. She was sitting alone with Christie, the child upon his footstool with his head in her lap and a picture-book on his knees.

“You two are a perfect Madonna and Child,” said Quaerts.

“Little Dolf has gone out to walk with his god-father,” she said, looking fondly upon her child and motioning to him gently.

At this bidding the boy stood up and [155]shyly approached Quaerts, offering him a hand. Quaerts lifted him up and set him on his knee:

“How light he is!”

“He is not strong,” said Cecile.

“You coddle him too much.” She laughed:

“Pedagogue!” she laughed. “How do I coddle him?”

“I always find him nestling against your skirts. He must come with me one of these days: I should make him do some gymnastics.”

“Jules horse-riding and Christie gymnastics!” she exclaimed.

“Yes ... sport, in fact!” he answered, with a meaning look of fun.

She glanced back at him; and sympathy smiled from the depths of her gold-grey eyes. He felt thoroughly happy and, with the child still upon his knees, said: [156]

“I have come to confess to you ... Madonna!”

Then, as though startled, he put the child away from him.

“To confess?”

“Yes.... There, Christie, go back to Mamma; I mustn’t keep you by me any longer.”

“Very well,” said Christie, with great, wondering eyes, and caught hold of the cord of Quaerts’ eyeglass.

“The Child would forgive too easily,” said Quaerts.

“And I, have I anything to forgive you?” she asked.

“I shall be only too happy if you will see it in that light.”

“Then begin your confession.”

“But the Child ...” he hesitated.

Cecile stood up; she took the child, kissed him and sat him on a stool by the [157]window with his picture-book. Then she came back to the sofa:

“He will not hear....”

And Quaerts began the story, choosing his words: he spoke of the shooting, of the ragging-parties and the peasant-woman and of Brussels. She listened attentively, with dread in her eyes at the violence of such a life, the echo of which reverberated in his words, even though the echo was softened by his reverence.

“And is all this a sin calling for absolution?” she asked, when he had finished.

“Is it not?”

“I am no Madonna, but ... a woman with fairly emancipated views. If you were happy in what you did, it was no sin, for happiness is good.... Were you happy, I ask you? For in that case what you did was ... good.”

“Happy?” he asked. [158]

“Yes.”

“No.... Therefore I have sinned, sinned against myself, have I not? Forgive me ... Madonna.”

She was troubled at the sound of his voice, which, gently broken, wrapped her about as with a spell; she was troubled to see him sitting there, filling with his body, his personality, his existence a place in her room, beside her. In a single second she lived through hours, feeling her calm love lying heavy within her, like a sweet weight; feeling a longing to throw her arms about him and tell him that she worshipped him; feeling also an intense sorrow at what he had admitted, that once again he had been unhappy. Hardly able to control herself in her compassion, she rose, moved towards him and laid her hand upon his shoulder:

“Tell me, do you mean all this? Is [159]it all true? Is it true that you have been living as you say and yet have not been happy?”

“Perfectly true, on my soul.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“I couldn’t help it.”

“You were unable to force yourself to be more moderate?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then I should like to teach you.”

“And I should not like to learn, from you. For it is and always will be my best happiness to be immoderate also where you are concerned, immoderate in the life of my real self, my soul, just as I have now been immoderate in the life of my apparent self.”

Her eyes grew dim; she shook her head, her hand still upon his shoulder:

“That is not right,” she said, in deep distress. [160]

“It is a joy ... for both those beings. I have to be like that, I have to be immoderate: they both demand it.”

“But that is not right,” she insisted. “Pure enjoyment ...”

“The lowest, but also the highest....”

A shiver passed through her, a deadly fear for him.

“No, no,” she persisted. “Don’t think that. Don’t do it. Neither the one nor the other. Really, it is all wrong. Pure joy, unbridled joy, even the highest, is not good. In that way you force your life. When you speak so, I am afraid for your sake. Try ............