Anne Serre

It's at this point that the pangs of suffering sink into their tender flesh for the first time. They ignore them - they're not unpleasant, in fact. The stranger grows ten inches, his hair turns a deeper gold, his flesh tastier, his voice more resonant. They succumb.

In love they cease to possess that marvelous self-assurance that sent them striding through garden, woods and fields, lashing the wayside grass. They mellow. They mellow so much, in fact, that you'd think they were melting.

Neither could imagine living without the other. They preferred to go on lying to each other. They preferred to live apart, so long as they were together. And that wasn't so simple either. It's not that easy to keep one's soul under lock and key, as it were. It was like being alone in the world and, in a way, doomed. Yet they were in thrall to a kind of law according to which the person who has accompanied you in love will be the one who accompanies you in death. They were like animals, obedient to an instinct whose meaning and function eluded them.

At first, they didn't know how to placate these storms. Time and experience are needed. At first, they thought you had to rush everywhere, so they'd race around the garden like madwomen, climbing trees, scaring the birds away, stamping their feet at the gates, hurling all kinds of objects at each other. They would swim or read - feverishly, all night - devour an entire pheasant, tear their dresses, kiss the maids. Then came the first stranger, whom they didn't trust one little bit. They had heard about love, they had heard about men and the power they wielded. It filled them with dread. They would hide behind the curtains in their rooms, or in some dark corner in a corridor, behind a doorway, and from there would study him.

If he approached, their faces would be inscrutable, their bodies dumb. They didn't really have bodies, in fact. So long as the stranger remained outside them, they could examine him all they liked, they still didn't know a thing about him. And it was because of this fiercely guarded secret that they eventually went up to him.

They emerged from the shadows where you can see without being seen and walked into the center of the lighted room. They looked him straight in the eye. When there was desire in his gaze they knew that it was somewhere nearby that the secret was hidden. So they tried to open the door, but only a little, just to get a glimpse inside. Of themselves they gave nothing away - not a thing, not even a fingertip. They wanted to know the secret, but without having to share it with him. Again they failed. When they opened the door slightly, they saw the same thing they had seen in his gaze. Nothing more than that. The secret was still further back. They would have to go up to him and let him touch them. They gave him a mouth, a breast, occasionally an entire body, but even when he was inside them, it wasn't enough. They were still in the dark because they didn't feel a thing.

Then, one day, something in their body stirred. Something that went coursing through their limbs, igniting a million sparks that began to glow day and night. They stopped being afraid, opened their golden gates, and sat quietly without moving, waiting for him to walk into the silky trap that was the secret of his own desire.