It was in the garden of the Langeais’ villa, near Paris, on the outskirts of the forest of Isle-Adam, that Olivier and Jacqueline had the interview which was the turning-point in their lives.
Christophe had gone down with his friend, but he had found a harmonium in the house, and sat playing so as to leave the lovers to walk about the garden in peace.—Truth to tell, they did not wish it. They were afraid to be left alone. Jacqueline was silent and rather hostile. On his last visit Olivier had been conscious of a change in her manner, a sudden coldness, an expression in her eyes which was strange, hard, and almost inimical. It froze him. He dared not ask her for an explanation, for he was fearful of hearing cruel words on the lips of the girl he loved. He trembled whenever he saw Christophe leave them, for it seemed to him that his presence was his only safeguard against the blow which threatened to fall upon him.
It was not that Jacqueline loved Olivier less. Rather she was more in love with him, and it was that that made her hostile. Love, with which till then she had only played, love, to which she had so often called, was there, before her eyes: she saw it gaping before her like an abyss, and she flung back in terror: she could not understand it, and wondered:
“Why? Why? What does it mean?”
Then she would look at Olivier with the expression which so hurt him, and think:
“Who is this man?”
And she could not tell. He was a stranger.
“Why do I love him?”
She could not tell.
“Do I love him?”
She could not tell. … She did not know: and yet she knew that she was caught: she was in the toils of love: she was on the point of losing herself in love, losing herself utterly; her will, her independence, her egoism, her dreams of the future, all were to be swallowed up by the monster. And she would harden herself in anger, and sometimes she would feel that she almost hated Olivier.
They went to the very end of the garden, into the kitchen-garden, which was cut off from the lawns by a hedge of tall trees. They sauntered down the paths bordered on either side with gooseberry bushes, with their clusters of red and golden fruit, and beds of strawberries, the fragrance of which scented the air. It was June: but there had been storms, and the weather was cold. The sky was gray and the light dim: the low-hanging clouds moved in a heavy mass, drifting with the wind, which blew only in the higher air, and never touched the earth; no leaf stirred: but the air was very fresh. Everything was shrouded in melancholy, even their hearts, swelling with the grave happiness that was in them. And from the other end of the garden, through the open windows of the villa, out of sight, there came the sound of the harmonium, grinding out the Fugue in E Flat Minor of Johann Sebastian Bach. They sat down on the coping of a well, both pale and silent. And Olivier saw tears trickling down Jacqueline’s cheeks.
“You are crying?” he murmured, with trembling lips.
And the tears came to his own eyes.
He took her hand. She laid her head on Olivier’s shoulder. She gave up the struggle: she was vanquished, and it was such sweet comfort to her! … They wept silently as they sat listening to the music under the moving canopy of the heavy clouds, which in their noiseless flight seemed to skim the tops of the trees. They thought of all that they had suffered, and perhaps—who knows?—of all that they were to suffer in the future. There are moments when music summons forth all the sadness woven into the woof of a human being’s destiny. …
After a moment or two Jacqueline dried her eyes and looked at Olivier. And suddenly they kissed. O boundless happiness! Religious happiness! So sweet and so profound that it is almost sorrow!
Jacqueline asked:
“Was your sister like you?”
Olivier felt a sudden pang. He said:
“Why do you ask me about her? Did you know her?”
She replied:
“Christophe told me. … You have suffered?”
Olivier nodded: he was too much moved to speak.
“I have suffered too,” she said.
She told him of the friend who had been taken from her, her beloved Marthe and with her heart big with emotion she told him how she had wept, wept until she thought she was going to die.
“You will help me?” she said, in a beseeching tone. “You will help me to live, and be good, and to be a little like her? Poor Marthe, you will love her too?”
“We will love them both, as they both love each other.”
“I wish they were here.”
“They are here.”
They sat there locked in each other’s arms: they hardly breathed, and could feel heart beating to heart. A gentle drizzle was falling, falling. Jacqueline shivered.
“Let us go in,” she said.
Under the trees it was almost dark. Olivier kissed Jacqueline’s wet hair: she turned her face up to him, and, for the first time, he felt loving lips against his, a girl’s lips, warm and parted a little. They were nigh swooning.
Near the house they stopped once more:
“How utterly alone we were!” he said.
He had already forgotten Christophe.
They remembered
