more in Amélie …”
“And he is quite at sea about Jules,” said Quaerts. “Jules is thoroughly tractable, and anything but a genius. Jules is nothing more than an exceedingly receptive boy, with a little rudimentary talent. And you … he misconceives you, too!”
“Me?”
“Entirely! Do you know what he thinks of you?”
“No.”
“He thinks you – let me begin by telling you this – very, very sympathetic, and a dear little mother to your boys. But he thinks also that you are incapable of growing very fond of anyone; he thinks you a woman without passion, and melancholy for no reason, except for weariness. He thinks you weary yourself!”
She looked at him quite alarmed, and saw him laughing mischievously.
“Never in my life am I weary!” she said, and laughed, too, with full conviction.
“Of course not!” he replied.
“How can
you
know?” she asked.
“I feel it!” he answered. “And, what is more, I know that the base of your character is not melancholy, not dark, but enthusiasm and light.”
“I am not so sure of that myself,” she scarcely murmured, heavy, with that weakness within her; happy, that he should estimate her so exactly. “And do you, too,” she continued, very airily, “think I am incapable of loving anyone very much?”
“Now that is a matter which I am not competent to judge,” he said, with such frankness that his whole countenance suddenly grew younger, and the crease disappeared from his forehead. “I cannot tell that!”
“You seem to know a great deal about me!”
“I have seen you so often already.”
“Barely four times.”
“That is often.”
She laughed brightly.
“Is that a compliment?”
“It is meant for one,” he replied. “You do not know how much it means to me to see you.”
How much it meant to him to see her! And she felt herself so small, so weak, and him so great, so perfect. With what decision he spoke, how certain he seemed of it all! It almost saddened her that it meant so much to him to see her a single time. He placed her too high; she did not wish to be placed so high.
And that delicate fragile something hung betweenthem again, as it had hung between them at dinner. Then it had been broken by one ill-chosen word. Oh, that it might not be broken now!
“And now let us talk about
you
!” she said, with affected frivolousness. “Do you know that you take all sorts of pains to understand me, and that I know nothing of you? That cannot be fair.”
“If you knew how much I have given you already! I give myself to you entirely; from others I always conceal myself.”
“Why?”
“Because I am afraid of the others!”
“
You
afraid?”
“Yes. You think that I do not look as if I could feel afraid? I have something …”
He hesitated.
“Well?” she asked.
“I have something that is very dear to me, and about which I am very anxious, lest any should touch it.”
“And that is?”
“My soul. I am not afraid of your touching it, for you would not hurt it. On the contrary, I know it is very safe with you.”
She would have liked once more, mechanically, to reproach him with his strangeness: she could not. But he guessed her thoughts.
“You think me a very odd person, do you not? But how can I be otherwise with you?”
She felt her love expanding within her heart, widening it to its full capacity within her. Her love was as a domain, in which he wandered.
“I do not understand you yet; I do not know you yet!” she said softly. “I do not see you yet …”
“Would you be in any way interested to know me, to see me?”
“Surely.”
“Let me tell you then; I should like to do so, it would be a great joy to me.”
“I am listening to you most attentively.”
“One question beforehand: You cannot endure an athlete?”
“On the contrary, I do not mind the display and development of strength so long as it is not too near to me. Just as I like to hear a storm, when I am safely within doors. And I can
“And he is quite at sea about Jules,” said Quaerts. “Jules is thoroughly tractable, and anything but a genius. Jules is nothing more than an exceedingly receptive boy, with a little rudimentary talent. And you … he misconceives you, too!”
“Me?”
“Entirely! Do you know what he thinks of you?”
“No.”
“He thinks you – let me begin by telling you this – very, very sympathetic, and a dear little mother to your boys. But he thinks also that you are incapable of growing very fond of anyone; he thinks you a woman without passion, and melancholy for no reason, except for weariness. He thinks you weary yourself!”
She looked at him quite alarmed, and saw him laughing mischievously.
“Never in my life am I weary!” she said, and laughed, too, with full conviction.
“Of course not!” he replied.
“How can
you
know?” she asked.
“I feel it!” he answered. “And, what is more, I know that the base of your character is not melancholy, not dark, but enthusiasm and light.”
“I am not so sure of that myself,” she scarcely murmured, heavy, with that weakness within her; happy, that he should estimate her so exactly. “And do you, too,” she continued, very airily, “think I am incapable of loving anyone very much?”
“Now that is a matter which I am not competent to judge,” he said, with such frankness that his whole countenance suddenly grew younger, and the crease disappeared from his forehead. “I cannot tell that!”
“You seem to know a great deal about me!”
“I have seen you so often already.”
“Barely four times.”
“That is often.”
She laughed brightly.
“Is that a compliment?”
“It is meant for one,” he replied. “You do not know how much it means to me to see you.”
How much it meant to him to see her! And she felt herself so small, so weak, and him so great, so perfect. With what decision he spoke, how certain he seemed of it all! It almost saddened her that it meant so much to him to see her a single time. He placed her too high; she did not wish to be placed so high.
And that delicate fragile something hung betweenthem again, as it had hung between them at dinner. Then it had been broken by one ill-chosen word. Oh, that it might not be broken now!
“And now let us talk about
you
!” she said, with affected frivolousness. “Do you know that you take all sorts of pains to understand me, and that I know nothing of you? That cannot be fair.”
“If you knew how much I have given you already! I give myself to you entirely; from others I always conceal myself.”
“Why?”
“Because I am afraid of the others!”
“
You
afraid?”
“Yes. You think that I do not look as if I could feel afraid? I have something …”
He hesitated.
“Well?” she asked.
“I have something that is very dear to me, and about which I am very anxious, lest any should touch it.”
“And that is?”
“My soul. I am not afraid of your touching it, for you would not hurt it. On the contrary, I know it is very safe with you.”
She would have liked once more, mechanically, to reproach him with his strangeness: she could not. But he guessed her thoughts.
“You think me a very odd person, do you not? But how can I be otherwise with you?”
She felt her love expanding within her heart, widening it to its full capacity within her. Her love was as a domain, in which he wandered.
“I do not understand you yet; I do not know you yet!” she said softly. “I do not see you yet …”
“Would you be in any way interested to know me, to see me?”
“Surely.”
“Let me tell you then; I should like to do so, it would be a great joy to me.”
“I am listening to you most attentively.”
“One question beforehand: You cannot endure an athlete?”
“On the contrary, I do not mind the display and development of strength so long as it is not too near to me. Just as I like to hear a storm, when I am safely within doors. And I can
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