He sighed, sank into his chair, submitted to her stronger will. If only she had flown out at him, he would have stormed back at her; but she was saying such strange things, the sort of things that people never said, and she was so calm and frank about it, calmer and franker than people ever were.

"You will listen seriously for a moment? Well, what I want to ask you is this: have you never thought that it would be better ... if we just quietly separated, Henri?"

He said nothing, looked at her with his great wondering eyes.

"It is certainly very late," she said, "very late for me to propose it. But it is perhaps not too late.... Let us be honest, Henri: we have never been happy together. You might perhaps still be happy without me, released from me, free...."

He continued to look at her, his eyes still full of amazement; and it seemed as though he was afraid to turn his gaze towards a life of such transcendent peace and quietness and sincerity. It seemed to him that she was urging him to take a road which grew fainter and fainter as it took its mystic, winding way towards clouds ... towards things that did not exist.

"I?... Happy?" he stammered, not knowing what to say.

But a more concrete thought now came into his mind:

"And Addie?" he asked.

"I am not forgetting him," she said, gently. "He is the child of both of us, whom we both love. If we quietly ... quietly separate, if you become happy later, he will be able to understand that his parents, however pa.s.sionately they both loved him, separated because it was better that they should. He need not suffer through it. He will not suffer through it. At least, I like to think that he will not. If we are only honest, Henri, he cannot suffer through it."

"And you ... what would you do?"

She blushed, but did not lose her composure; he did not see her blush. She had not yet thought of herself for a moment: she was thinking, had been thinking, after that wave of remorse and after holding Marianne that morning in her arms, only of him and Marianne, of their happiness, his and Marianne's, even though she did not mention the girl's name again, once she had told him that Marianne had refused Van Vreeswijck. She was thinking only of the two of them.... What would she do? She did not know. Her love, it is true, rose radiantly before her: her love, her new life; but she was not thinking of outward change. Life, the real life, was an inward thing; outwardly she was the mother of her son and would remain so....

"I?" she asked. "Nothing. I should simply stay as I am. Addie could be with us in turns."

"It would distress him, Constance...."

"Perhaps, at first.... But he would soon understand."

"Constance, tell me, why are you speaking like this?"

"In what way?"

"What do you really mean, Constance? What do you mean by my happiness?"

"Only what I say, Henri: that you may still be able to find your happiness."

"You are frank," he said, forcing himself to adopt her tone, though it was difficult for him to speak like that. "You are frank. I will also try to be frank. My happiness? You speak of my happiness?... I am too old to find that now."

"No, you are not old. You are young."

"And you?"

"I ... am old. But there is no question about me. I am thinking ... of you."

She looked at him and he suddenly understood her. He understood her, but he writhed under so much frankness and at seeing life so honestly:

"No, no, Constance," he mumbled.

"Think it over," she said, gently. "If you like ... I will agree. Only ... let us do it quietly, Henri, ... let us do it, if possible, with something of affection for each other."

Her eyes filled with tears. He was very much moved:

"No, Constance, no," he mumbled.

"Henri, have the courage to be honest. Have the courage and do not be weak. Be a man. I am only a woman and I have the courage."

"Constance, people ..."

"No, Henri, you must not hesitate because of people. If we cannot do it, it would be because of Addie. But I like to think that, if he understands, he will not suffer through it. He must not suffer through it: that would be selfish of him; and he is not selfish."

"No, Constance, no!" he protested again.

"Think it over, Henri," she repeated. "Think it all out. I shall think of Addie also. You know how pa.s.sionately devoted I am to him. But ..."

"Constance, it is all too late."

"But think it over, Henri."

"Yes, yes, Constance, I shall ... I shall think it over."

"And, if we decide upon it ... let us do it ... let us decide to do it with something of affection for each other ..."

"Yes, Constance ... yes, with affection ... You are nice ... you are kind ..."

He looked at her, his chest heaving with emotion; a haze dimmed the boyish glance of his eyes. She had meant to go, quietly, to leave him alone. She went to the door, without another word, another look, wishing to leave him alone with his thoughts.

"Constance!" he cried, hoa.r.s.ely.

She looked round. He was standing before her; and she saw him quivering, trembling with the emotion, the shock which the reality of life had sent shuddering through him. For a moment they stood in front of each other; and, because they saw into each other's eyes, they told each other once more--silently, without words--that they understood each other! A great grat.i.tude, an emotion that to him was almost superhuman shot through his small soul and flowed over her. And, impotently, he cried once more, like a man in a fever:

"Constance!"

He flung himself, distractedly, desperately, with a wild impulse, into her arms; bursting into sobs, he buried his head in her breast. She started violently; she felt his convulsive tremors against her heart. Then she threw her arm around him, stroked his hair. It was as though she were comforting her son.

"I am mad, I am mad!" he muttered.

He released himself, hurriedly pressed a quivering kiss on her forehead and tore down the stairs. And, when she went down to her drawing-room, she suddenly heard the front-door slam and saw him bicycling away like a madman, his back arched like a professional's. He pedalled, pedalled furiously: she watched him lose himself ... in movement, speed and s.p.a.ce ...

"Poor boy!" she thought.

Then she sank into a chair, while the room swam round her. She closed her eyes and her hands fell limply at her side. So she sat for half an hour, unconscious, alone ... as if the new life had been too keen, too intense, with its pure air, its honesty ... too rare and keen in its cold-blue ether ... and as if she were swooning away in it....

CHAPTER XXVII

She came to herself with a start and did not know whether she had been unconscious or asleep. At the same moment, she heard the bell and through the curtain she saw Brauws, standing outside the door.