trained state of nature, speaking aloud, living openly, without a
secret, displaying the innocent shamelessness, the hearty tenderness of
the world's first days. Serge and Albine, however, suffered from these
voluptuous surroundings, and at times felt minded to curse the garden.
On the afternoon when Albine had wept so bitterly after their saunter
amongst the rocks, she had called out to the Paradou, whose intensity of
life and passion filled her with distress:

'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,