Ecstasy Read Free

where she had put them, tidying with her fingers, and perfectly absent in her mind.
    “Anna, draw a card too. You can come in later!” cried Dolf from the other room.
    The two sisters remained along with Jules.
    The boy sat down on a footstool near Cecile.
    “Mamma, do leave my music alone.”
    Amélie sat down near Cecile.
    “Is Christie better?”
    “He is a little livelier today.”
    “I am glad. Have you never met Quaerts before?”
    “No.”
    “Really? He comes here so often.”
    Cecile looked through the open folding-doors at the card table. Two candles stood upon it. Mrs Hoze’s pink face was lit up clearly, smooth and stately; her coiffure gleamed silver-grey. Quaerts sat opposite her; Cecile noticed the round, vanishing silhouette of his head, the hair cut very close, thick and black above the glittering white streak of his collar. His arms made little movements as he threw down a card, or gathered up a trick. His person had something about it of great power, something energetic and sturdy, something of everyday life, which Cecile disliked.
    “Are the girls fond of cards?”
    “Suzette is, Anna not so much; she is not quite so brisk.”
    Cecile saw that Anna sat behind her father, staring with eyes which did not understand.
    “Do you go out much with them now?” Cecile asked.
    “Yes, I am obliged to: Suzette likes going out, but not Anna. Suzette will be a pretty girl, don’t you think?”
    “Suzette is a nasty coquettish thing,” said Jules. “At our last dinner-party …”
    He suddenly stopped.
    “No, I can’t tell you. It’s not right to tell tales, is it, Auntie?”
    Cecile smiled.
    “No, certainly it’s not.”
    “I want always to do what is right.”
    “That is very good.”
    “No, no!” he said deprecatingly. “Everything seems to me so bad, do you know. Why is everything so bad?”
    “But there is much that is good too, Jules.”
    He shook his head.
    “No, no!” he repeated. “Everything is bad. Everything is very bad. Everything is selfishness. Just mention something that is not selfish!”
    “Parental love!”
    But Jules shook his head again.
    “Parental love is ordinary selfishness. Children are a part of their parents, who only love themselves when they love their children.”
    “Jules!” cried Amélie. “You talk far too rashly. You know I don’t like it: you are much too young to talk like that. One would think you knew everything.”
    The boy was silent.
    “And I always say that we never know anything. Wenever know anything, don’t you think so too, Cecile? I, at least, never know anything, never …”
    She looked round the room absently. Her fingers smoothed the fringe of her chair, tidying up. Cecile put her arm softly round Jules’ neck.

III
    It was Quaerts’ turn to sit out from the card-table, and although Dolf pressed him to continue playing, he rose. She saw him coming towards the room where she still sat with Amélie – Jules sitting at her feet – engaged in desultory talk, for Amélie could never maintain a conversation, always wandering and losing the threads. She did not know why, but Cecile suddenly wore a most serious expression, as if she were discussing very important matters with her sister; though all she said was:
    “Jules should really take lessons in harmony, when he composes so nicely …”
    Quaerts had approached her; he sat down next to them with a scarcely perceptible shyness in his manner, with a gentle hesitation in the brusque force of his movements. But Jules fired up.
    “No, Auntie; I want to be taught as little as possible. I don’t want to learn names and principles and classifications, I could not do it. I only compose like this,” suiting his phrase with a vague movement of his fingers.
    “Jules can hardly read, it’s a shame!” said Amélie.
    “And he plays so sweetly,” said Cecile.
    “Yes, Auntie; I remember things, I pick them out on the piano. Ah! it’s not very clever; it just comes out of myself, you