"Salut! car avant toi les choses n'etaient pas.
Salut! douce; salut! Puissante Lumiere, c'est par toi que les femmes sont belles." (1). (i) "Hail! for before Thy birth all things were void.
Most sweet and powerful LightHail land once more Hail.
'Tis through Thee, O Light, that women are beautiful."
On coming to the end of these lines, she asked: "Who wrote that? Now, guess." Uncertain, I named a number of authors, haphazard. She smiled at the name of Victor Hugo, burst into laughter when I mentioned Arthur Rimbaud, and clapped her hands joyfully when I attributed the poem to "some illustrious unknown writer." Then, triumphantly, she named the "unknown one":
"Anatole France, my dear sir."
Whereupon, without transition, she stopped in the middle of the road and kissed me on the lips. Looking at me in a humble manner, she said:
"Don't think that I'm filled with stupid vanity for having learnt a few verses by heart. I am well aware that a vast scientific and professional world exists, — one in which you, my darling, evolve at your ease. And when I think of that I feel shamefully ignorant."
During the whole of the service, Therese, with her face in her hands, remained kneeling at her prie-dieu and appeared to ignore me completely. I felt rather annoyed at this. I envied the turbulent crowd of youngsters of the catechism class who were playing sly little tricks on each other; I envied their stifled laughter when they beheld a choir-boy, in too short a surplice, revealing his chubby, rubicund calves. And when we got outside I remained for a short time in the sulks.
"You are saying nothing, darling."
"I don't dare to speak a word. I'm still intimidated by your recent meditation."
"Meditation?" She shook her head. "Rather my attempt to meditate. I was more distracted than Margaret after her fall; and doubtless some Mephistopheles near to me was inspiring impure thoughts in my brain."
"Who was it? The stout gentleman who was sitting on your right?"
"Oh! I say! I didn't even notice him. No, you, in all probability, were the Tempter."
"If I may say so, I was sitting most quietly in my corner-yawning, and had no other distraction than to caress your legs with my eyes."
"But that was very naughty of you, sir. I don't want you to have the air of being a libertine, or one who makes a show of his incredulity. What must the poor devout folks have thought of you?"
She concluded in a more serious tone:
"You must not shock them!"
"Are you yourself such a firm believer?"
"A believer? No: at any rate not sufficiently one. On the other hand, I am incapable of turning other peoples' beliefs to derision. If there's one piece of vulgarity which exasperates me, it's that which ridicules mystic preoccupations, — the stupid sufficiency of Monsieur Homais."
"Is that meant as a reproach?"
"Oh! not at all, darling. I know quite well that, as regards so-called religion, you think as I do. Had I been a more firm believer-even a little more devout-you would have been respectful of my faith."
Pressing herself against me, she added in a lower voice:
"Just as you have been respectful-so tenderly respectful of my fears, of my first feelings of shame as a young wife."
She repeated to me what her letters had already revealed regarding the evolution of her souclass="underline" her religious aspirations, the anguish aroused by her early doubts, the revival of faith in consequence of a "retreat", and then, once more, a spiritual downfall. I admired her mental seriousness, her intellectual probity, and the precision of her own psychological diagnosis.
"I have not confessed to you… But I am afraid you will make fun of me."
"No, no. Tell me, dearie."
"For a time I went into training with Loyola's Spiritual Exercises."
"Seriously?"
"Indeed so. And with every bit as great a conviction as is shown to-day when training for a final in a foot-ball contest… However, I didn't succeed. But sometimes I was transported by mighty mystic aspirations, yet without succeeding in coming to any clear conception of my ideal. Perhaps it was towards you that, unconsciously, I aspired."
As soon as we got back, we separated for a short time, in order to put on what we called our "garden costumes", — in her case, ample beach pyjamas, a light jersey, and a very short bolero; in mine, a flannel suit, worn next the skin. But I made out that her jersey was superfluous.
"Take it off, Therese. It's getting scorching hot outside."
"But you see quite well that that's an impossibility. This is a ridiculously short bolero and it would be terribly open on my bosom. I should be a most indecent object."
"Nobody will see us under the arbour."
"What about the gardeners?"
"I have granted them, most royally, the day off. They are at Evreux, or somewhere in the neighbourhood. In this six to seven acre park we are as much alone as Adam and Eve were in the Garden of Eden."
She accused me of criminal premeditation; and then, without further protest, allowed me to bare her bosom. She was so calm, amidst the Olympian indifference of her semi-nudity, that I did not daredespite the temptation-to kiss her breasts. So that, when I replaced her bolero and fastened it as well as possible around her breasts, she began to reproach me.
"Naughty man!"
"What's the matter?"
"You don't love me any more. You didn't even give them a kiss."
Only too happy to make amends, I bent towards her. But she crossed her arms over her bubbies and with well-feigned indignation exclaimed:
"No, sir. They are very annoyed with you. They will let everybody kiss them, save you."
As on preceding days, we took refuge under the cool shade of a clump of lindens, which were almost completely encircled by a thick hedge of privet, leaving, in that sunlit garden, only a narrow and discreet glimpse of the distance. The wooden seat was already familiar to us,a common wood bench, made of green strips, such as one can see in every garden. But its curved back (doubtless designed by some sensually-minded constructor) fitted to the body most softly. Seated on my right, Therese removed her large straw hat, with an excellent imitation of Cyrano's manner: "Gracefully I fling aside my felt…", at the same time, in a comical voice, imitating the nasal drawl of certain old actors. Then she stopped for a few moments, fell into a dreamy state, and, with a sigh, let her head droop on to my shoulder.
"Are you sad, Therese?"
"No, most happy. Only a little tired."
Under her wide-open bolero I could perceive the curve of a breast, its pure line emphasized by a ruddy spot. My wish was to be able to admire it peaceably, but already my loins became affected: that indocile parasite, my penis, awakened and began to lengthen itself out. Encircling Therese's shoulders with one arm and advancing my free hand towards the beautiful, semi-bare breast, I bestowed upon it the softest of caresses. Therese laid her hand on mine to immobilize it.
"Darling, — leave your hand where it is, but don't move it. You know quite well that if you caress me, I shall at once become frightfully excited. I want to rest a little. It is so delightfully shady here after the sunny road."
I obeyed her, enclosing the throbbing globe with my hand; and it was a novel, delicious pleasure to note that this somewhat tiny portion of her bosom coincided exactly with the measurements of my fingers. My conversion to the thesis of final causes was then an easy matter. The rosy nipple-unhardened by voluptuousness-slumbered, as it were, under my palm.
Therese had placed a hand on my knee. I drew it very gently towards me. Immediately responding to this impulse, her hand travelled along my thigh, came into contact with my stiffened member, under the thin flannel of my trousers. And then her fingers clutched it. But this contact was too indistinct a one to give either of us satisfaction, so her hand again moved, searching for the opening in my garment.