‘If you really be our friend, why, why do you make us so wretched?’

XIV

The next morning Serge barricaded himself in his room.  The perfume from the garden irritated him.  He drew the calico curtains closely across the window to shut out the sight of the park.  Perhaps he thought he might recover all his old serenity and calm if he shut himself off from that greenery, whose shade sent such passionate thrills quivering through him.

During the long hours they spent together, Albine and he never now spoke of the rocks or the streams, the trees or the sky.  The Paradou might no longer have been in existence.  They strove to forget it.  And yet they were all the time conscious of its presence on the other side of those slight curtains.  Scented breezes forced their way in through the interstices of the window frame, the many voices of nature made the panes resound.  All the life of the park laughed, chattered, and whispered in ambush beneath their window.  As it reached them their cheeks would pale and they would raise their voices, seeking some occupation which might prevent them from hearing it.

‘Have you noticed,’ said Serge one morning during these uneasy intervals, ’there is a painting of a woman over the door there?  She is like you.’

He laughed noisily as he finished speaking.  They both turned to the paintings and dragged the table once more alongside the wall, with a nervous desire to occupy themselves.

‘Oh! no,’ murmured Albine.  ’She is much fatter than I am.  But one can’t see her very well; her position is so queer.’

They relapsed into silence.  From the decayed, faded painting a scene, which they had never before noticed, now showed forth.  It was as if the picture had taken shape and substance again beneath the influence of the summer heat.  You could sea a nymph with arms thrown back and pliant figure on a bed of flowers which had been strewn for her by young cupids, who, sickle in hand, ever added fresh blossoms to her rosy couch.  And nearer, you could also see a cloven-hoofed faun who had surprised her thus.  But Albine repeated, ’No, she is not like me, she is very plain.’

Serge said nothing.  He looked at the girl and then at Albine, as though he were comparing them one with the other.  Albine pulled up one of her sleeves, as if to show that her arm was whiter than that of the pictured girl.  Then they subsided into silence again, and gazed at the painting; and for a moment Albine’s large blue eyes turned to Serge’s grey ones, which were glowing.

‘You have got all the room painted again, then?’ she cried, as she sprang from the table.  ’These people look as though they were all coming to life again.’

They began to laugh, but there was a nervous ring about their merriment as they glanced at the nude and frisking cupids which started to life again on all the panels.  They no longer took those survivals of voluptuous eighteenth century art to represent mere children at play.  They were disturbed by the sight of them, and as Albine felt Serge’s hot breath on her neck she started and left his side to seat herself on the sofa.  ‘They frighten me,’ she murmured.  ’The men are like robbers, and the women, with their dying eyes, look like people who are being murdered.’