lovely chords of Debussy
which they had so greatly loved. More than it had ever done in any other
time, music responded to the need of their hearts. Music was the only
art which rendered the voice of the delivered soul behind the screen of
forms.

On Holy Thursday they walked, Luce on Pierre's arm and holding his hand,
along the streets of the suburb, soused with the rain. Gusts of wind
scurried over the moistened plain. They noted neither rain nor wind,
neither the hideousness of the fields nor the muddy ways. They seated
themselves on the low wall of a park, a section of which had recently
fallen in. Under Pierre's umbrella, which scarcely protected her head
and shoulders, Luce, her legs hanging down and her hands wet, her rubber
coat all steeped, looked at the water dripping down. When the wind
stirred the branches a little fire of drops sounded "clop, clop!" Luce
was silent, smiling, tranquilly luminous. A profound joy bathed them.

"Why does one love so much?" said Pierre.

"Ah, Pierre, you do not love me so very much if you ask that."

"I ask you that," said Pierre, "in order to make you say what I know
just as well as you."

"You want me to give you some compliments. But you'll be neatly caught.
For if you know why I love you, I for my part do not know why."

"You don't know?" said Pierre in consternation.

"Why no!" (She was laughing in her sleeve.) "And there is no need at all
why I should know. When one asks why something is, it means that one is
not sure about it, that the thing is not good. Now that I do love, no
more why! No more where or when or for, nor how either! My love is, my
love is! All beside may exist if it cares to."

Their faces kissed each other. The rain took advantage of that, gliding
under the awkward umbrella in order to brush with its fingers their hair
and cheeks; between their lips they drank in a little cold drop.

Pierre remarked:

"But the others?"

"What others?" quoth Luce.

"The poor," answered Pierre. "All those who are not us?"

"Let them do as we do! Let them love!"

"And be loved? Luce, all the world can not do that."

"Why, yes!"

"Why, no. You don't realize the value of the gift you have made me."

"To give one's heart to love, one's lips to the beloved is to give one's
eyes to the light; it isn't giving, it's taking."

"There are blind people."

"We cannot cure them, Pierrot. Let's do the seeing for them!"

Pierre remained silent.

"What are you t