They went down and out into the garden without the smile fading from Serge’s face.  All that he saw of the greenery around him was such as was reflected in the clear depths of Albine’s eyes.  As they approached, the garden smiled and smiled again, a murmur of content sped from leaf to leaf and from bough to bough to the furthest depths of the avenues.  For days and days the garden must have been hoping and expecting to see them thus, clinging to one another, making their peace again with the trees and searching for their lost love on the grassy banks.  A solemn warning breath sighed through the branches; the afternoon sky was drowsy with heat; the plants raised their bowing heads to watch them pass.

‘Listen,’ whispered Albine.  ’They drop into silence as we come near them; but over yonder they are expecting us, they are telling each other the way they must lead us....  I told you we should have no trouble about the paths, the trees themselves will direct us with their spreading arms.’

The whole park did, indeed, appear to be impelling them gently onward.  In their rear it seemed as if a barrier of brush-wood had bristled up to prevent them from retracing their steps; while, in front of them, the grassy lawns spread out so invitingly, that they glided along the soft slopes, without thought of choosing their way.

‘And the birds are coming with us, too,’ said Albine.  ’It is the tomtits this time.  Don’t you see them?  They are skimming over the hedges, and they stop at each turning to see that we don’t lose our way.’  Then she added:  ’All the living things of the park are with us.  Can’t you hear them?  There is a deep rustling close behind us.  It is the birds in the trees, the insects in the grass, the roebucks and the stags in the coppices, and even the little fishes splashing the quiet water with their beating fins.  Don’t turn round, or you will frighten them.  Ah!  I am sure we have a rare train behind us.’

They still walked on, unfatigued.  Albine spoke only to charm Serge with the music of her voice, while Serge obeyed the slightest pressure of her hand.  They knew not what they passed, but they were certain that they were going straight towards their goal.  And as they went along, the garden became gradually graver, more discreet; the soughing of the branches died away, the streams hushed their plashing waters, the birds, the beasts, and the insects fell into silence.  All around them reigned solemn stillness.

Then Albine and Serge instinctively raised their heads.  In front of them they beheld a colossal mass of foliage; and, as they hesitated for a moment, a roe, after gazing at them with its sweet soft eyes, bounded into the thickets.

‘It is there,’ said Albine.

She led the way, her face again turned towards Serge, whom she drew with her, and they disappeared amid the quivering leaves, and all grew quiet again.  They were entering into delicious peace.

In the centre there stood a tree covered with so dense a foliage that one could not recognise its species.  It was of giant girth, with a trunk that seemed to breathe like a living breast, and far-reaching boughs that stretched like protecting arms around it.  It towered up there beautiful, strong, virile, and fruitful.  It was the king of the garden, the father of the forest, the pride of the plants, the beloved of the sun, whose earliest and latest beams smiled daily on its crest.  From its green vault poured all the joys of creation:  fragrance of flowers, music of birds, gleams of golden light, wakeful freshness of dawn, slumbrous warmth of evening twilight.  So strong was the sap that it burst through the very bark, bathing the tree with the powers of fruitfulness, making it the symbol of earth’s virility.  Its presence sufficed to give the clearing an enchanting charm.  The other trees built up around it an impenetrable wall, which isolated it as in a sanctuary of silence and twilight.  There was but greenery there, not a scrap of sky, not a glimpse of horizon; nothing but a swelling rotunda, draped with green silkiness of leaves, adorned below with mossy velvet.  And one entered, as into the liquid crystal of a source, a greenish limpidity, a sheet of silver reposing beneath reflected reeds.  Colours, perfumes, sounds, quivers, all were vague, indeterminate, transparent, steeped in a felicity amidst which everything seemed to faint away.  Languorous warmth, the glimmer of a summer’s night, as it fades on the bare shoulder of some fair girl, a scarce perceptible murmur of love sinking into silence, lingered beneath the motionless branches, unstirred by the slightest zephyr.  It was hymeneal solitude, a chamber where Nature lay hidden in the embraces of the sun.

Albine and Serge stood there in an ecstasy of joy.  As soon as the tree had received them beneath its shade, they felt eased of all the anxious disquiet which had so long distressed them.  The fears which had made them avoid each other, the fierce wrestling of spirit which had torn and wounded them, without consciousness on their part of what they were really contending against, vanished, and left them in perfect peace.  Absolute confidence, supreme serenity, now pervaded them, they yielded unhesitatingly to the joy of being together in that lonely nook, so completely hidden from the outside world.  They had surrendered themselves to the garden, they awaited in all calmness the behests of that tree of life.  It enveloped them in such ecstasy of love that the whole clearing seemed to disappear from before their eyes, and to leave them wrapped in an atmosphere of perfume.

‘The air is like ripe fruit,’ murmured Albine.

And Serge whispered in his turn:  ’The grass seems so full of life and motion, that I could almost think I was treading on your dress.’

It was a kind of religious feeling which made them lower their voices.  No sentiment of curiosity impelled them to raise their heads and scan the tree.  The consciousness of its majesty weighed heavily upon them.  With a glance Albine asked whether she had overrated the enchantment of the greenery, and Serge answered her with two tears that trickled down his cheeks.  The joy that filled them at being there could not be expressed in words.

‘Come,’ she whispered in his ear, in a voice that was softer than a sigh.

And she glided on in front of him, and seated herself at the very foot of the tree.  Then, with a fond smile, she stretched out her hands to him; while he, standing before her, grasped them in his own with a responsive smile.  Then she drew him slowly towards her and he sank down by her side.

‘Ah! do you remember,’ he said, ’that wall which seemed to have grown up between us?  Now there is nothing to keep us apart ­you are not unhappy now?’

‘No, no,’ she answered; ‘very happy.’

For a moment they relapsed into silence whilst soft emotion stole over them.  Then Serge, caressing Albine, exclaimed:  ’Your face is mine; your eyes, your mouth, your cheeks are mine.  Your arms are mine, from your shoulders to the tips of your nails.  You are wholly mine.’  And as he spoke he kissed her lips, her eyes, her cheeks.  He kissed her arms, with quick short kisses, from her fingers to her shoulders.  He poured upon her a rain of kisses hot as a summer shower, deluging her cheeks, her forehead, her lips, and her neck.

‘But if you are mine, I am yours,’ said he; ’yours for ever; for I now well know that you are my queen, my sovereign, whom I must worship on bended knee.  I am here only to obey you, to lie at your feet, to anticipate your wishes, to shelter you with my arms, to drive away whatever might trouble your tranquillity.  And you are my life’s goal.  Since I first awoke in this garden, you have ever been before me; I have grown up that I might be yours.  Ever, as my end, my reward, have I gazed upon your grace.  You passed in the sunshine with the sheen of your golden hair; you were a promise that I should some day know all the mysteries and necessities of creation, of this earth, of these trees, these waters, these skies, whose last secret is yet unrevealed.  I belong to you; I am your slave; I will listen to you and obey you, with my lips upon your feet.’

He said this, bowed to the ground, adoring Woman.  And Albine, full of pride, allowed herself to be adored.  She yielded her hands, her cheeks, her lips, to Serge’s rapturous kisses.  She felt herself indeed a queen as she saw him, who was so strong, bending so humbly before her.  She had conquered him, and held him there at her mercy.  With a single word she could dispose of him.  And that which helped her to recognise her omnipotence was that she heard the whole garden rejoicing at her triumph, with gradually swelling pæans of approval.

’Ah! if we could fly off together, if we could but die even, in one another’s arms,’ faltered Serge, scarce able to articulate.  But Albine had strength enough to raise her finger as though to bid him listen.

It was the garden that had planned and willed it all.  For weeks and weeks it had been favouring and encouraging their passion, and at last, on that supreme day, it had lured them to that spot, and now it became the Tempter whose every voice spoke of love.  From the flower-beds, amid the fragrance of the languid blossoms, was wafted a soft sighing, which told of the weddings of the roses, the love-joys of the violets; and never before had the héliotropes sent forth so voluptuous a perfume.  Mingled with the soft air which arose from the orchard were all the exhalations of ripe fruit, the vanilla of apricots, the musk of oranges, all the luscious aroma of fruitfulness.  From the meadows came fuller notes, the million sighs of the sun-kissed grass, the multitudinous love-plaints of legions of living things, here and there softened by the refreshing caresses of the rivulets, on whose banks the very willows palpitated with desire.  And the forest proclaimed the mighty passion of the oaks.  Through the high branches sounded solemn music, organ strains like the nuptial marches of the ashes and the birches, the hornbeams and the planes, while from the bushes and the young coppices arose noisy mirth like that of youthful lovers chasing one another over banks and into hollows amid much crackling and snapping of branches.  From afar, too, the faint breeze wafted the sounds of the rocks splitting in their passion beneath the burning heat, while near them the spiky plants loved in a tragic fashion of their own, unrefreshed by the neighbouring springs, which themselves glowed with the love of the passionate sun.

‘What do they say?’ asked Serge, half swooning, as Albine pressed him to her bosom.  The voices of the Paradou were growing yet more distinct.  The animals, in their turn, joined in the universal song of nature.  The grasshoppers grew faint with the passion of their chants; the butterflies scattered kisses with their beating wings.  The amorous sparrows flew to their mates; the rivers rippled over the loves of the fishes; whilst in the depths of the forest the nightingales sent forth pearly, voluptuous notes, and the stags bellowed their love aloud.  Reptiles and insects, every species of invisible life, every atom of matter, the earth itself joined in the great chorus.  It was the chorus of love and of nature ­the chorus of the whole wide world; and in the very sky the clouds were radiant with rapture, as to those two children Love revealed the Eternity of Life.