Jules descended from the ladder. He was disappointed that Quaerts had not followed his arrangement of the weapons upon the rack, and his drapery of the stuff around them. But he had quietly continued his work, and now that it was finished, he came down and went quietly to sit upon the floor, with his head against the foot of the sofa where his friend lay thinking. Jules never said a word; he looked straight before him, a little sulkily, knowing that Quaerts was looking at him.
“Jules!” said Quaerts.
But Jules did not answer, still staring.
“Tell me, Jules! Why do you like me so much?”
“How should I know?” answered Jules, with thin lips.
“Don’t you know?”
“No. How can you know why you are fond of anyone?”
“You ought not to be so fond of me, Jules. It’s not good.”
“Very well, I will be less so in the future.”
Jules rose suddenly, and took his hat. He held out his hand, but, laughing, Quaerts held him.
“You see, scarcely anyone is fond of me, save … you and your father. Now, I know why your father is fond of me, but not why you are.”
“You are always wanting to know something.”
“Is that so very wrong?”
“Certainly. You will never be satisfied. Mamma always says that no one knows anything.”
“And you?”
“I … nothing …”
“What do you mean … nothing?”
“I know nothing at all … Let me go.”
“Are you cross, Jules?”
“No; but I have an engagement.”
“Can’t you wait until I have dressed, then we can go together? I am going to Aunt Cecile’s.”
Jules objected.
“Very well, only hurry.”
Quaerts rose up. He now saw the arrangement of the weapons, about which he had quite forgotten: “You have done it very prettily, Jules,” he said, admiringly. “Thank you very much.”
Jules did not answer, and Quaerts went through into his dressing-room. The lad sat down on the sofa, bolt upright, looking out upon the Palace, across the bareness of the withered trees. His eyes filled with great round tears, which fell down. Stiff and motionless, he wept.
III
Cecile had passed those same three weeks in a state of ignorance which had filled her with pain. Through Dolf she had indeed heard 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 stood before her before she could recover herself, and as she was trembling she did not rise up, 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.”
He noticed 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 thought there was nothing extraordinary in that, or that perhaps she seemed pale in the cream colour of her soft white dress, like silken wool, even as her form was yet slighter in the constraint of the scarf about her waist, with its long white fringe falling to her feet. She sat alone with Christie, the child upon his footstool with his head in her lap, a picture-book upon his knees.
“You two are a perfect Madonna and Child,” said Quaerts.
“Little Dolf is gone out to walk with his godfather,” she said, looking fondly upon her child, and gently motioning to him.
At which bidding the little boy stood up and shyly approached Quaerts, offering him a tiny hand. Quaerts took him up and set him upon his knee.
“How light he is!”
“He is not strong,” said Cecile.
“You coddle him too much.”
She laughed.
“Pedagogue!” she said, bantering. “How do I coddle him?”
“I always find him nestling against your skirts. He must come with me one of these days. You should let him try some gymnastics.”
“Jules horse-riding and Christie gymnastics!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, sport in fact,” he replied, with a look of malice.
She looked 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 he said:
“I come to confess to you … Lady!”
Then, as though startled, he put the child away from him.
“To confess?”
“Yes … Christie, go back to Mamma; I must not keep you by me any longer.”
“Very well,” said Christie, with great wondering eyes.
“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.”
“Begin then.”
“Le petit Jésus …” he hesitated.
Cecile stood up; she took the child, kissed him, and sat him on a stool by the window with his picture-book. Then she came back to the chaise-longue.
“He will not hear …”
And Quaerts began the story, choosing his words; he spoke of the shooting, the escapades, 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 sinfulness needing absolution?” she asked, when it was finished.
“Is it not?”
“I am no madonna, but … a woman whose ideas have been somewhat emancipated. If you were happy in what you did it was no sin, for happiness is good … Were you happy then, I ask you? For in that case what you did was … good.”
“Happy?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“No … therefore I have sinned, sinned against myself, have I not? Forgive me … Lady.”
She was troubled at the sound of his voice, which, caressively broken, wrapped her about in a charm; she was troubled to see him sitting there, filling with his personality a place in her room beside her. In one second she lived whole hours, feeling her calm love heavy within her, a not oppressive weight, feeling a longing to throw her arms about him and tell him that she worshipped him; feeling also fervent sorrow at what he had confessed: that again he had been unhappy. Hardly able to control herself in her compassion, she stood up, stepped towards him, and laid her hand upon his shoulder:
“Tell me, do you mean all this? Is it all true? Is it true that you have lived as you say, and yet have not been happy?”
“Perfectly true, on my soul.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“I could not do otherwise.”
“You were unable to force yourself to moderation?”
“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; excessive in the emotion of my secret self, my soul, just as I have now been excessive in the grossness of my evident self.”