Ecstasy by Louis Couperus Page B

moment penetrate without sin into the truth of the law which insists on equilibrium, which takes away from one what it offers another, which gives Happiness and Grief together; he could not understand that if Happiness was with him, with her there was anguish, anguish that she must make a pretence and deceive him for his own sake: anguish that she wanted above all what was earthly, that she craved for what was earthly, panted for earthly pleasures …! Still less could he know that, through all this,there was voluptuousness in her anguish: that to suffer through him, to suffer for him, made of her anguish all voluptuousness.

II
    It was dark and late, and still they sat there.
    “Shall we go for a walk?” she asked.
    He hesitated, but she asked anew, “Why not, if you care to?”
    And he could no longer refuse.
    They rose up, and went along by the back of the house; Cecile said to the maid, whom she saw sitting sewing by the kitchen door:
    “Greta, fetch me my small black hat, my black lace shawl, and a pair of gloves.”
    The servant rose and went into the house. Cecile noticed how a little shyness marked itself more strongly in Quaerts’ hesitation now that they were waiting between the flower beds. She smiled, plucked a rose, and placed it in her waistband.
    “Have the boys gone to bed?” he asked.
    “Yes,” she replied, still smiling, “long ago.”
    The servant returned; Cecile put on the small black hat and the lace about her neck; she refused the gloves Greta offered her.
    “No, not these; get me a pair of grey ones …”
    The servant entered the house again, and as Cecile looked at Quaerts, she gave a little laugh.
    “What is the matter?” she asked, mischievously, knowing perfectly what it was.
    “Nothing, nothing!” he said, vaguely, and waited patiently until Greta returned.
    Then they went through the garden gate into the woods. They walked slowly, without speaking; Cecile played with her long gloves, not putting them on.
    “Really …” he began, hesitating.
    “Come, what is it?”
    “You know; I told you the other day; it isn’t right …”
    “What?”
    “What we are doing now. You risk too much.”
    “Too much, with you?”
    “If anyone were to see us …”
    “And what then?”
    He shook his head.
    “You are wilful; you know very well.”
    She clenched her eyes; her mouth grew serious; she pretended to be a little angry.
    “Listen, you must not be anxious if I am 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 is 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, too happy to wish to make any sacrifice to a convention which at that moment did not exist for either of them.
    They walked silently. Cecile’s sensations came to her always 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 did not suffer so seriously as she had at first thought; that her agony, being 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 it not on a sufficiently low plane now that it was an absolute fact? Did he not love her with a tenderness which feared for anything which might trouble her in the world, through her ignoring it and wandering with him alone in the dark? Did he not love her with tenderness, but also with the lustre of the divinity of his soul, calling her madonna, by