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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2cbe011 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #66882 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/66882) diff --git a/old/66882-0.txt b/old/66882-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 0fe6939..0000000 --- a/old/66882-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,11478 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Summer, by Romain Rolland - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Summer - -Author: Romain Rolland - -Translator: Eleanor Stimson - Van Wyck Brooks - -Release Date: December 4, 2021 [eBook #66882] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Laura Natal Rodrigues - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SUMMER *** - -SUMMER - - - - -BEING VOLUME TWO OF - -_The Soul Enchanted_ - - - - -By - -ROMAIN ROLLAND - - - - -_Translated from the French by_ - -ELEANOR STIMSON & VAN WYCK BROOKS - - - - -NEW YORK - -HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY - -1925 - - - - -_Summer_ is the second volume of a work in several volumes that bears -the title: _The Soul Enchanted_. - -The first volume is entitled _Annette and Sylvie_. - - - - -To strive, to seek, _not_ to find, and not to yield. - - - - -CONTENTS -PART ONE -CHAPTER I -CHAPTER II -CHAPTER III -CHAPTER IV -CHAPTER V -CHAPTER VI -CHAPTER VII -CHAPTER VIII -CHAPTER IX -CHAPTER X -CHAPTER XI -CHAPTER XII -CHAPTER XIII -CHAPTER XIV -CHAPTER XV -CHAPTER XVI -CHAPTER XVII -CHAPTER XVIII -CHAPTER XIX -CHAPTER XX -CHAPTER XXI -CHAPTER XXII -PART TWO -CHAPTER XXIII -CHAPTER XXIV -CHAPTER XXV -CHAPTER XXVI -CHAPTER XXVII -CHAPTER XXVIII -CHAPTER XXIX -CHAPTER XXX -CHAPTER XXXI -CHAPTER XXXII -CHAPTER XXXIII -CHAPTER XXXIV -CHAPTER XXXV -PART THREE -CHAPTER XXXVI -CHAPTER XXXVII -CHAPTER XXXVIII -CHAPTER XXXIX -CHAPTER XL -CHAPTER XLI -CHAPTER XLII -CHAPTER XLIII -CHAPTER XLIV -CHAPTER XLV -CHAPTER XLVI -CHAPTER XLVII -CHAPTER XLVIII -CHAPTER XLIX -CHAPTER L -CHAPTER LI - - - - -_SUMMER_ - -PART ONE - - - - -I - - -On the half-light of the room, with its closed shutters, Annette was -sitting on her bed, smiling, with her white dressing-gown wrapped about -her. Her unbound hair, which she had just washed, covered her shoulders. -Through the open windows could be seen the motionless, golden warmth of -an August mid-afternoon; without observing it, one felt out there the -torpor of the Jardin de Boulogne sleeping in the sunlight. Annette -shared in this beatitude. She could rest there for hours, stretched out, -without stirring, without thinking, without needing to think. It was -enough for her to know that there were two of her; and she did not even -make an effort to talk with the "little one" who was inside her, -because--of this she was sure--he felt what she felt, they understood -one another without speaking. Waves of tenderness passed through the -happy somnolence of her body. And then she relapsed again into a happy -smile. - -But if her mind was drowsy, her senses had retained a marvelous -clairvoyance; they followed from moment to moment the fine vibrations of -the air and the light. . . . A fragrant odor of strawberries in the -garden. . . . She enjoyed it with her nostrils and her tongue. Her -amused ear caught the slightest sound, the leaves brushed by a breeze, a -footstep on the gravel, a voice in the street, a bell ringing for -vespers. And the rumble ascending from the great crowds: Paris in -1900 . . . the summer of the Exposition. In the vat of the Champ de Mars -thousands of human grapes were fermenting in the sun. . . . Far enough -away, yet close enough to the monstrous bubbling to feel its presence -and to be safe from it, Annette rejoiced in the contrast of the peace -and the shade of her nest. Vain tumult! The truth dwells within -me. . . . - - - - - -II - - -Her hearing, subtle and wandering like that of a cat, seized upon every -sound that passed, one after another, and idly let it fall again; from -the floor below she caught the ring of the door-bell and recognized the -little steps of Sylvie, who was always in a hurry. Annette would have -preferred to be left alone. But she was so solidly settled in her -happiness that, no matter who came, nothing could disturb her. - -It was only eight days since Sylvie had received her news. Since last -spring she had heard nothing from her sister. A personal adventure that -had not affected her very much had yet been enough to fill her thoughts: -she had not realized how long the silence had been. But when the affair -was settled and she found her mind free again, with time to think of it, -she began to be troubled. She went to her aunt at the Boulogne house for -news. She was very much surprised to hear that Annette had come back -some time before. She was rather inclined to give the forgetful soul a -good snubbing, but Annette tactfully turned her to another subject that -surprised her; gently but feelingly, she had simply told her the whole -story. Sylvie found it very difficult to listen to the end. That -Annette, the sensible Annette, had done this mad thing and refused to -marry afterwards, no, it was unheard of, she simply wouldn't tolerate -it! . . . This little Lucretia was scandalized. She railed at Annette; -she called her an idiot. Annette remained calm. It was plain that -nothing could make her change her mind. Sylvie realized that she had no -hold on this obstinate soul: she would have liked to give her a good -whipping! . . . But how was it possible to remain angry with such a -lovable person who listened as you spoke with such a disarming smile! -And then the mysterious charm of this maternity. . . . Sylvie -anathematized it as a calamity, but she was too much a woman not to be -touched. . . . - -And to-day she had come again, with her mind made up to give Annette a -good raking over the coals, to break down her stupid resistance, to -oblige her to insist on marriage. . . . "If you don't, if you don't, I -shall be furious! . . ." She came in like a gust of wind, smelling of -rice-powder and battle. And to make a start, without saying -good-morning, she began scolding about this mad way of passing one's -days, shut up in the dark. But catching sight of the happy eyes of -Annette, who stretched out her arms to her, she ran to her and hugged -her. She went on scolding: "Fool! Silly! Arch-fool! . . . With her -sweeping hair over her long white dressing-gown she looks like an -angel. . . . But what a mistake it would be to think she was! . . . The -sanctimonious wretch! The little scamp! . . ." - -She shook her. Weariedly, contentedly, Annette let her have her way. -Sylvie stopped in the middle of her tirade, took her sister's forehead -between her hands and pushed back her hair. "She is fresh, she is pink, -never have I seen her with such beautiful color. And that look of -triumph! Good reason for it! Aren't you ashamed?" - -"Not in the least!" said Annette. "I am happier than I have ever been -before. And so strong, so well. For the first time in my life I feel -complete, I desire nothing more. This longing that is going to be -fulfilled for a child goes back so far in my life! Ever since I was a -child myself. . . . Yes, when I was seven years old I was already -dreaming of it." - -"That's a fib," said Sylvie. "Only six months ago you told me you had -never felt that maternity was your vocation." - -"Do you really think that? Did I really say that?" said Annette, -disconcerted. "It's true, I did say it. But I haven't lied, just the -same, either now or then. . . . How explain it? I am not pretending. I -remember clearly." - -"I know how it is," said Sylvie. "When I have a fancy for something, I -often immediately remember that I have never wanted anything but that -since the day I was born." - -Annette frowned; she was not satisfied. "The nature I feel to-day is my -real nature. It always has been, but I didn't dare confess it to myself -before the time came; I was afraid I was mistaken. Now . . . Oh! now, I -see that it is even more beautiful than I had hoped. And it is my whole -self. I want nothing more." - -"When you wanted Roger or Tullio," said Sylvie maliciously, "you wanted -nothing more." - -"Oh, you don't understand anything! . . . Can the two things be -compared? When I was in love (what you call 'love'), it wasn't I who -wished it, I was forced. . . . How I suffered from that force that held -me, without being able to resist it! . . . And now you see how my little -one has come to my rescue when I was struggling in the bonds of the -misery they call love, how he came, how he has saved me. My little -liberator!" - -Sylvie began to laugh. She had not in the least understood her sister's -reasons. But she did not need any reasons to understand her maternal -instinct: on that subject the two sisters would always be in accord. -They began to chat affectionately about the little unknown creature (was -it going to be a man or a woman?)--discussing a thousand nothings, -serious and foolish, about its coming, things about which a woman never -wearies of chattering. - -They had been talking this way for a long time when Sylvie remembered -that she had come to administer her lesson, not to sing a duet. -"Annette," she said, "enough of this nonsense! There is a time for -everything. Roger owes you marriage, and you must insist on it." - -Annette made a weary gesture. "Why go back to that? I have told you that -Roger offered it to me and that I refused." - -"Well, when one has been stupid one should recognize it and change." - -"I have no desire to change." - -"Why don't you want to? You loved this man. I am sure you still love -him. What has happened?" - -Annette was unwilling to reply. Sylvie insisted, tactlessly seeking for -the deep, personal reasons for their disagreement. Annette made an -impatient gesture. Sylvie looked at her, astonished. Annette's -expression was angry, her brows were knitted, her eyes full of -irritation. - -"What's the matter with you?" - -"Nothing," said Annette, turning aside hastily. - -Sylvie had touched a wound that she wanted to forget. Through an -inconsistency she could not have explained, but which came from the -depths of her nature, she who rejoiced at the coming of the child bore a -grudge against the man who had given it to her; she could not forgive -herself because her senses had been taken by surprise, because of the -passion that had betrayed her in this way--she could not forgive the man -who had seized such an opportunity. This instinctive recoil had been the -true, hidden reason (hidden from her as from the others) for her flight -from Roger and her refusal to see him again. In the depths of her being -she hated him because she had loved him. But as her mind was -straightforward she repressed these instincts which she felt to be evil. -Why was Sylvie forcing her to become aware of them? . . . - -Sylvie looked at her and insisted no more. Annette, calm again, ashamed -of what she had allowed to become visible, of what she had seen herself, -tried to change the subject and said quietly, "I don't want to marry. I -am not made for these exclusive bonds. You may tell me that millions of -women get used to them, that I exaggerate their seriousness. But I am -made in such a way that I take everything seriously. If I give myself, I -give myself, too much, and then I am smothered; I feel as if I were -drowning with a stone around my neck. Perhaps I am not strong enough. My -personality is not firmly established. Ties that are too close are -bind-weeds that drain my energy; and there is not enough left for me. I -try to please the 'other person,' to be like the image of what he wants -me to be, and this ends badly. For in renouncing too much of one's -nature one loses one's self-respect and cannot live any more; or one -revolts and causes suffering. No, I am an egoist, Sylvie. I was made to -live alone." - -(Although she was not in any sense lying, she was uttering pretexts that -masked the truth from herself.) - -"You amuse me," said Sylvie. "You are the last woman to live without -love." - -"I hate it," said Annette. "But it will not catch me again now. I am -protected from it." - -"Beautifully protected!" said Sylvie. "He won't protect you in the -least; you will have to protect him. You don't want to bind yourself, -but have you thought of the fetters this little bundle is going to mean -for you?" - -"Happiness! With my arms filled, these arms that have been empty so -long!" - -"You are talking without thinking. Who is going to bring him up?" - -"I." - -"What about the father? He has rights over his child." - -A new cloud of irritation passed over Annette's brows. . . . Rights! -Rights over his child! . . . His child! The child of that man, that -blind moment which he has already forgotten and which binds me for -life! . . . Never! . . . My child is mine! . . . She said, "My child -belongs to me." - -"He will belong to whom he likes." - -"Oh, I know whom he's going to like!" - -"Seducer! And suppose that, in spite of everything, he reproaches you -some day for depriving him of a father!" - -"I shall fill his heart so full that there won't remain the tiniest -place for regrets for anyone else." - -"You are a monster of egoism." - -"I said I was." - -"You will be punished." - -"Well, so much the worse for me if I can't make him love me! What's to -prevent me from loving him and why shouldn't he love me?" - -"If you really love him you should think first of his future. Plenty of -other people have been obliged to accept a disagreeable marriage for the -sake of the child." - -"You revolt me," said Annette, "praising those women who condemn -themselves to a false marriage, sometimes one built on hatred, out of -love for the child. You remind me of that mother who told her daughter -she had endured hell for her sake by remaining married. The daughter -replied: 'Do you think hell is a good home for a child?'" - -"The child needs a father." - -"But how about the thousands of people who have gone without one? How -many have never known one at all! How many have lost their fathers in -early childhood and have been brought up by their mothers alone! Are -they inferior to other people? The child needs a protecting love. Why -should not mine be enough?" - -"You overestimate your strength. Do you know what is awaiting you?" - -"I know, I know! The little arms of a child about my neck." - -"But do you know the price the world will make you pay for it? It would -be much better for you to be married and an adulteress four times over -than to have people brand you with the name of an unmarried mother. To -dare to assume the pains and responsibilities of motherhood without -having first accepted the stamp of their official marriage is something -for which a woman of their class is never pardoned. It would be all -right for me. What people like myself do is of no consequence. Your -bourgeois people even find that it pays to have things so. They are -ready enough to praise free love in the working-class, as they do in -_Louise_, but a girl of the bourgeoisie belongs in a private preserve. -You are their property. They can buy you by contract, before a lawyer; -you can't give yourself in the presence of heaven and say, 'It's my -right.' Good Lord, where would we end if property revolted against its -master and said, 'I am free! Let anyone who wishes come and cultivate -me.'" - -Even when she was indignant Sylvie could not speak seriously. - -Annette smiled and said, "Customs are made by man. I know. He condemns -the woman who dares to have her children outside of marriage without -dedicating herself for life to the father of her children. But for many -women this means slavery, for they do not love their husbands. Many a -woman would remain free and alone with her little ones if she had the -courage. I shall try to have it." - -Sylvie said, with a touch of pity, "Poor innocent! Your life has been -shielded from hardships by the double windows of this bourgeoisie that -shuts you in with its prejudices--and its privileges also. Once you -leave it, you will never be allowed to enter it again, and you will have -a glimpse then of what life is!" - -"Well, Sylvie, that's only fair; you are right in saying that I have -been privileged; it will be good for me to have my share in what you -suffer." - -"Too late! One must learn that in childhood. At your age it's no longer -possible. Luckily you are rich, you will never know material suffering. -But the other, moral suffering . . . your class will cast you out, -public opinion will condemn you, every day you will have to endure some -little insult. . . . You have a proud and tender heart. It will bleed." - -"It will bleed, but one enjoys happiness all the more if one has to pay -for it. I want nothing but health and an honest mind. Public opinion has -no terrors for me." - -"But what if your child suffers from it?" - -"Would they dare? Well, we shall fight together against the cowards." - -Sitting upright again on her bed, she shook her hair like a lioness. - -Sylvie studied her, did her best to preserve her look of severity, was -unable to do so, laughed, shrugged her shoulders and sighed, "Poor -little idiot!" - -Annette coaxingly asked her, "Will you help us?" - -Sylvie hugged her furiously. And she shook her fist at the wall. -"Beware, anyone who touches you!" - - -She left. Annette, fatigued by the discussion, fell back into her -reverie. This time she had won in the encounter with her sister. But one -disturbing thing remained from the conversation, one word uttered by -Sylvie . . . Would the child some day reproach her? . . . - -Stretched out on her back, with her hands crossed over her breast, she -listened to what was within her. The tiny creature was beginning to -stir. Annette, with her lips closed, spoke to him as she had so often -done. She asked him if she was doing right in keeping him for herself -alone; she begged him instantly to tell her if she was right, if he was -satisfied: for she would do nothing for which he could blame her. -Whereupon the child, naturally enough, replied that she was doing right, -that he was satisfied. He said he wanted to be hers, hers alone, and -that in order to dedicate herself to him she should remain free and live -with him alone. She and he. . . . - -Annette laughed with happiness. Her heart was so full that she could not -speak. And with her head heavy and intoxicated with her joy she fell -asleep. . . . - - - - -III - - -As soon as Annette's condition began to be visible, Sylvie obliged her -sister to move away from Paris. It was the beginning of autumn; before -long her friends would be coming back from their vacations. Surprisingly -enough, Annette offered no resistance. She was not afraid of public -opinion, but anything that might mean discord just now would have been -intolerable to her; nothing must disturb her harmony! - -She allowed herself to be conducted by Sylvie to a place on the Côte -d'Azure, but she did not stay there. It offered her no peaceful -seclusion. The neighborhood of the sea made her feel uncomfortable. -Annette was a landswoman. She could marvel at the ocean, but she could -not live on familiar terms with it. She submitted to the powerful -fascination of its breath, but this breath was not beneficial to her. It -reawoke in her too many hidden anxieties; it aroused what she did not -wish to be conscious of . . . not yet, not now. . . . There are beings -whom we do not love because, they say, we are afraid to love them. (Does -that mean we do love them?) Annette fought against the sea because she -was fighting against herself, against a dangerous Annette from whom she -was trying to escape. . . . - -She set out again northward, to the neighborhood of the Savoyard lakes, -and took quarters for the winter in a little town at the foot of the -mountains. Sylvie was only informed after she was settled. Kept in Paris -by her work, she could only make her sister brief, occasional visits, -and it troubled her to know that Annette was alone in this forsaken -spot. But Annette, during this time, could not be alone enough, nor -could the spot be sufficiently forsaken. She would have found a -hermitage delightful. The richer her inner life was, the more need she -felt for a clear, soundless atmosphere. She did not suffer, as Sylvie -supposed, from being abandoned to strange hands in her condition. In the -first place, she had so much affection to give that no one seemed to her -a stranger, and, as sympathy attracts sympathy, she did not long remain -a stranger to anyone else. It was not that the country-people, who had -little curiosity, put themselves out to know her. They bowed back and -forth, exchanged a few cordial words as they passed, or from their -doorsteps or over the hedges. They wished each other well. Probably in -case of need she could not have counted too far on this good will, but, -such as it was, it still meant a good deal in the daily round. The days -were lighter for it. Annette found the cool kindness of these good -souls, of whom she knew nothing and who left her alone, more to her -taste than the tyrannical exactions of relatives and friends who assume -over us the rights of heavy-handed guardians. - -Mid-November. . . . Sitting by the window, sewing, she looked out at the -new-fallen snow over the fields and the white-capped trees. But her eyes -returned to a wedding announcement. . . . The marriage of Roger Brissot -to a young girl of the political world in Paris. (Annette knew -her.) . . . Roger had lost no time. The Brissot ladies, angered by -Annette's flight, had hastened to bring about another wedding before people -should begin to gossip about their son's discomfiture, and Roger, in his -resentment, had accepted their choice. Annette could feel no surprise, -nor could she complain. She forced herself to think that she was glad -for poor Roger's sake. But the news disturbed her more than she would -have wished. So many memories quivered in her soul and her flesh! And -there, in that flesh, was the life brought into being by him. . . . In -the depths of the shadow, the agitations of those former days were -stirring. . . . No, no, Annette would not allow them to come out into -the open! She felt an aversion for those fevers of the past. Everything -that was sensual wearied her. Disgust, revolt. And that animosity. (She -acknowledged it now.) The echo of the ancestral hatred of the female for -the male who has fertilized her. - -She sewed; she sewed; she wanted to forget. Often when she was nervous -and saw a dangerous cloud gathering on the horizon, she had recourse to -the prayer-wheel of work. She sewed, and her thoughts slipped back into -their proper order. - -So they slipped back to-day. After half an hour of silent application, -her anxiety had passed, her smile had reappeared. As Annette lifted the -forehead that was bent over her work, her eyes were peaceful and she -said, "So be it!" - -The sun laughed over the snow. Annette left her work and dressed to go -out. Her ankles and her feet were a little swollen and she had to force -herself to walk; but once she was outside she found that she enjoyed it. -For her little companion was with her as she strolled along. He was -making his presence known now. In the evening especially he measured the -dimensions of his nest; he groped about in all directions. - -"Heavens, how narrow this is!" he seemed to say. "Is it never going to -end?" - -Then he went to sleep again. By day, when she was out walking, he was -well-behaved. But he seemed to be looking out through his mother's eyes, -for to these eyes everything appeared to be new. What fresh colors! -Nature had just placed them on the canvas. Annette's cheeks too had a -beautiful color. Her heart beat more vigorously and her blood ran. She -enjoyed every odor, every taste; when nobody was looking she would eat a -little snow by the roadside. Delicious! She remembered that as a child -she had done the same thing when her nurse's back was turned. And she -sucked the stems of the damp, frozen reeds. She had a shiver of -epicurean delight down the whole length of her throat; as the snowflakes -melted on her tongue, she too melted with the luxurious pleasure of it. - -After she had walked for an hour or two in the country, along the snowy -roads, alone yet not alone, alone but with all the company in the world, -under the grey canopy of the winter sky, listening to the song of her -own springtime, she turned back towards the town, her cheeks whipped red -by the cold wind, her eyes shining. Before the baker's window she would -yield to the attraction of some dainty made of chocolate or honey. (What -a glutton the little fellow was!) Then she would go and sit down, at -nightfall, in the church, before an altar, dark and golden like the -honey. And she who had no practical religion, no religious faith--or -thought she had no faith--would remain there till they closed the doors, -dreaming, praying, loving. Night fell; the altar-lamps, faintly -swinging, collected the last gleams in the darkness. Annette became -stiff, chilly, a little numb in her woolen overcoat as she warmed -herself at her own sun. A holy calm was within her. She was dreaming for -the child of a life enveloped in sweetness, in silence--in her own -loving arms. - - - - -IV - - -On one of the first days of the year the child was born. A boy. Sylvie -arrived just in time to welcome him. In spite of her suffering, which -drew from her an occasional groan--no tears, Annette, interested, -absorbed, was a little disappointed to find, surprisingly, that she was -more present at the event than the cause of it. The great emotion she -had expected had not appeared. When travail begins, one is caught in a -trap. No means of escaping: one has to go through with it. One resigns -oneself and bends all one's strength to reach the end as quickly as -possible. One's mind is clear, but one's energy is entirely occupied in -enduring the pain. One scarcely thinks of the child at all. No room for -tender or exalted feelings. Those that have previously filled one's -heart vanish. It is truly hard, harsh "labor," a labor of the flesh and -the muscles, wholly physical, with nothing beautiful or beneficent about -it. Up to the very moment when one's liberation comes, when one feels -the little body slip from one's own body . . . At last! - -Then, instantly, one's joy returns. With her teeth chattering, worn out, -almost collapsing at the bottom of an Arctic ocean, Annette stretched -out her cold hands to grasp and press to her own bruised limbs her -living fruit--her dearly beloved. - -There were no longer two of her now. They were no longer two in one, as -before. A fragment of herself was detached in space like a little -satellite, drawn by gravity about a star, an additional tiny force the -effect of which was immense in the psychic atmosphere. A strange thing -that, in this new couple formed by the segmentation of a being, the -larger should depend more for support upon the smaller than the smaller -upon the larger. Its wailing cry, through its very weakness, was a -source of strength for Annette. Oh, the wealth that comes to us from a -loved one who cannot exist without us! Annette, with her stiffened -breasts, at which the little animal greedily tugged, eagerly poured into -the body of her son the flood of milk and hope with which she was -swollen. - -Then began to unroll the first touching cycle of the _vita nuova_, that -discovery of the world, as old as the world, which every mother -experiences again as she bends over the cradle. The tireless watcher -awaiting with beating heart the awakening of her Sleeping Beauty. In his -sapphire eyes, with their violet depths, Annette found herself -reflected--they were so brilliant. What did it see, this gaze, as -indefinite and limitless as the great blue eye of heaven--empty or -profound, one couldn't say which? And what sudden shadows were cast upon -this pure mirror by those clouds of suffering, those invisible furies, -those unknown passions, come heaven knows whence! Was it from her past -or from his future? The face or the reverse of the same medal. . . . -"You are what I have been. I am what you will be. What will you be? What -am I?". . . Annette questioned herself in the eyes of her sphinx. And as -she observed this consciousness rising hourly from the depths, she lived -over again, without realizing it, in this homunculus, the birth of -humanity. - -One by one little Marc opened his windows to the world. There began to -pass over the uniform surface of his liquid stare more definite gleams, -like a flock of birds seeking for a place to alight. After a few weeks -the flower of a smile appeared on the living shrub. And then the birds -that had settled there began to chirp. Forgotten was the tragic -nightmare of the first days, forgotten the terror of the unknown earth, -the cries of the being brutally dragged from the maternal shell, cast -naked and bruised into the cruel light. The little man was comforted and -took possession of life. And he found it good. He explored it, touched -and tasted it greedily with his mouth, his eyes, his feet, his hands, -his back. He gloried in his prize, playing in astonishment with the -sounds that emerged from his pipe. One prize more, his voice! He -listened to himself singing. But his singing did not give him more -delight than it gave his mother. Annette was intoxicated by it. This -little stream of a voice made her heart melt. The shrill cries that rose -from the instrument gave her an exquisite pleasure as they pierced her -ear. - -"Cry louder, my darling! Yes, assert the life that is in you!" - -He asserted it with an energy that had no need of encouragement. Joy, -anger, whims, he protested them loudly in every key. Annette, who was a -novice in motherhood and a scandalously bad educator, found it all -charming; she did not have the strength to resist these tyrannical -appeals. She would get up ten times during the night rather than hear -him groan. And from dawn to dark she let him cling to her breast like a -greedy leech. The child could not have been happier, but it was not very -good for her. - -When she saw her sister again in the spring, Sylvie found her thinner, -and she was disturbed. Annette still seemed to be just as happy, but her -expression had become a little feverish; the tears came into her eyes at -any affectionate word. She admitted that she did not sleep enough, that -she did not know how to get proper help, and she felt inadequate before -the practical difficulties that arose in regard to the care and health -of the child. She said all this, affecting to laugh at her -faint-heartedness, but the fine assurance she had felt at the outset had -vanished. She was startled to discover that she was not as robust as she -had thought; as she had never been ill, she had not known the limits of -her strength, and she believed she could use it uncalculatingly. She -realized now that these limits were narrow and that she could not pass -them with impunity. What a fragile thing life is! At other times this -realization would not have affected her. But now that her life was -double, and someone else, even more fragile than herself, depended upon -this fragile thing. . . . Heavens, what would happen if she disappeared? -During her sleepless nights Annette turned this fear over in her mind -many a time. . . . She listened to her sleeping child, and at the least -change in its respiration, a slightly quicker breath, a cry or even a -silence, her own heart stopped beating. And as soon as this anxiety had -once entered it took up its abode in her. Annette no longer knew the -solemn, carefree calm of the night hours when the motionless body and -the thought-free mind, dreaming without sleeping, floated like -water-flowers, motionless, on the nocturnal pond. An Elysian quietude, -in which the grace that is granted one is only felt by the heart after -it has been lost. Henceforth, the watching soul is distrustful every -moment. In the most confident moments apprehension lies concealed. - -Sylvie was not mistaken. Under Annette's valiant smile, as she joked -about her weakness, she perceived how physically disordered she was, -perceived her animal need of joining her own kind again. She decided -that Annette should leave her retreat and come back and settle in some -house in the country a few hours from Paris where Sylvie could see her -almost every day and the news of her return would not become known. -Annette had no objection, but she insisted upon returning boldly to her -own house in Paris. She would not hear of any opposition to this. In -vain Sylvie pointed out to her that it would be most unwise, that her -peace of mind would be endangered. Annette was immovable. Her pride -would not endure anything that looked like running away in the face of -public opinion. During the happy year when she had been brooding over -the child, she had not thought of public opinion. She had lived alone -with her happiness; there was no room for a third person. For several -months her happiness had not diminished; she would have liked the world -to know of it, and it was painful to her to admit to herself that she -must hide it. The constant thought of this had hurt her. What, did she -have to conceal as something shameful this jewel that was all her pride? -She would seem to be denying it! - -"Deny you, my treasure!" She kissed him passionately. "I should not have -run away. I should have forced people to accept you from the very -beginning. But no more of this secrecy! I shall show you to people and -say, 'Look at my beautiful baby! You other mothers haven't anything like -him, have you?'" - - - - -V - - -She returned to Paris and settled there. The daughter of Raoul Rivière -knew very well that it would not be so easy to induce people to accept -her situation. But although she had inherited her father's contemptuous -attitude towards the world, she had not acquired from him the habit of -yielding outwardly to its prejudices in order to escape from it all the -more effectively. She meant to face it down and get the better of it. - -Her first experience was favorable enough. In Annette's absence her old -Aunt Victorine had remained in charge of the house, as she had done now -for many years. This diminutive person of more than sixty had a fresh -complexion, unwrinkled cheeks and tight little ringlets close about her -face. Calm, gentle, inoffensive, excessively timid, she had kept herself -sheltered from everything that might have disturbed her. From her -childhood Annette had always seen this Dame Trot of an aunt about the -house, looking after all the bothersome domestic duties, seeing that -everything was clean and comfortable and watching over the kitchen (for -she was an epicure), playing the part of an old family servant for whom, -just because she was part of the household furniture, nobody put himself -out. Her opinions had no weight; as a matter of fact, she had none. In -the course of the thirty years she had passed under her brother's roof -Aunt Victorine might have seen and heard strange things. But she had -seen nothing, heard nothing. It would have required force to make her -see what she did not wish to see. Raoul had taken no precautions. In his -circle of intimates he called her the deaf-mute of his seraglio. He made -fun of her to her face, fooled her, was rude to her, called her a -blockhead, made her cry, and then coaxed her back into a good humor, -gave her a noisy smack on both cheeks and induced her to coddle him as -if he had been a big boy. She had remembered him as a man with a heart -of gold, indeed as a saint--which would have amused him very much in his -grave if, for a Raoul Rivière, a tireless lover of the superficial -things of this world, anything that lay beneath had been worth so much -as a smile. - -It would not have been difficult for Annette to impress upon Aunt -Victorine's eyes an equally advantageous image of her personality. She -had inherited, along with the house, the worship which the old family -tabby rendered to the master. The only thing that was necessary was not -to disturb her illusions. Annette hesitated a long time before making up -her mind to do so. She had kept her aunt in ignorance of her adventure. -In leaving Paris she had used her health and her desire to travel as a -pretext. Far as this was from corresponding with the facts, her aunt had -appeared to believe it; she was not inquisitive and shrank from hearing -anything that might upset her. But, sooner or later, she had to know the -truth. Sylvie, after the child's birth, undertook to inform her. The -poor woman was completely taken aback. It was very hard for her to -understand the situation; she had never been brought face to face with -anything of the kind. She sent Annette several frantic letters, so -incoherent that Annette might have thought--at her age people have no -pity--that Aunt Victorine herself had just had the baby. She consoled -her as best she could. Sylvie was convinced that the old lady would -leave the house. But to leave the house was the last thought that could -have entered Aunt Victorine's head. For the rest, her mind was thrown -into the most inextricable confusion. She was quite incapable of giving -any advice, for advice was what she herself needed. The only thing she -could do was to lament. But one does not live by lamentation, and, as -one has to live in spite of everything, she ended by discovering in -Annette's misfortune a trial sent by heaven. She was beginning to get -used to it, in the absence of her niece, whose removal kept the -disgraceful occurrence at a distance, when Annette announced that she -was coming back. - -Annette was deeply moved on her return home. Sylvie had come to the -station to meet her. Aunt Victorine could not make up her mind to do -this; and, when she heard the house-door opening, she precipitately -mounted the stairs which she had half descended and ran and shut herself -up in her room. There Annette found her in tears. Her aunt, throwing her -arms about her, repeated, "My poor child! How is it possible? How is it -possible?" - -Annette, more disturbed than she wished to appear, assumed an air of -assurance and said bluntly, with a laugh, "There will be time enough to -explain it all. Let's go down to dinner now." - -The old lady allowed herself to be led downstairs. She continued to -whimper. Annette said to her, "Hush, hush, dear aunt! You mustn't cry." - -Her aunt tried to remember what she had wanted to say. There were a good -many things, lamentations, rebukes, questions, exclamations. But out of -them all she could extract nothing: nothing emerged but one great sigh -after another. Annette took her at once into the presence of the baby, -who was sleeping blissfully, its whole little body relaxed and plump, -its head thrown back. She fell into an ecstasy and clasped her hands: -the old retainer's heart instantly swore fealty to the new head of the -house. From this moment, young once more, she attached herself to the -chariot of the little god. At times she remembered that, in spite of -all, he was an object of scandal, and she found herself in confusion -again. Annette, talking with an affected indifference, watched with the -corner of her eye the good old face that was growing so long. "Come, -what's the matter?" she asked. "You must give some reason." - -Once more Aunt Victorine began her confused lamentations. - -"Yes," said Annette, drumming with her fingers. "Yes . . . But, after -all, what's to be done? Would you like to have us lose our dear little -boy?" - -(She knew very well what she was doing in making a point of this coaxing -"our.") - -Her superstitious aunt, quite upset, protested, "Annette, don't say -that. It's dangerous. How can you say such things?" - -"Well, then, you mustn't look that way. As long as our little one is -here, as long as he has come, what are we going to do about it? What -better can we do than to love him and be happy?" - -Her aunt might have replied, "Yes, but why should he have come?" But she -no longer had the strength to wish him away. Morality might have wished -it. The world and religion. Dignity and peace of mind. Peace of mind, -above all, perhaps. Her innermost thought, which she did not confess to -herself, was, "Heaven help us! If only that unhappy child had not told -me anything about it!" - -In the end, as it was impossible to reconcile contradictory thoughts, -Aunt Victorine ceased to think at all. Abandoning herself to instinct, -she became the old hen that has spent her life bringing up the chicks of -others. She accepted it. - -But Annette had no particular reason to congratulate herself. There are -allies who bring more trouble than help. Through her aunt, annoyances -from outside speedily began to reach Annette. Madame Victorine was a -gossip, and she lent her ear to everything the neighborhood had to say -about her niece's return. She would come running home, bathed in tears, -to repeat it to Annette. Annette would scold her affectionately, but she -could not help being affected by this stupid tittle-tattle. When the old -woman came in she would wonder now with a shiver, "What is she going to -tell me this time?" - -She forbade her to talk. But when her aunt was silent, it was even -worse, thanks to what she did not say, her sighs, her look of distress. -And Annette was storing up an increasing irritation against this -poisonous public opinion which she pretended to ignore. - -If she had been prudent she would at least have avoided occasions for -coming in contact with it. But she was too much alive to be prudent. -People are only prudent when they have suffered from not being so. Human -nature is so made that Annette, who contemptuously turned her back on -the judgment of the world, burned to know what people were saying behind -her back. And, dreading every morning that the day would not pass -without bringing her the echo of some disturbing remark, she was ready -to go out in search of them when no such remarks came. She was spared -the trouble. From her family, from her cousins of both sexes, with whom -she maintained only the most distant connection, she received -scandalized letters and lectures that she could hardly endure. Their -claim to pose as judges of her conduct and champions of the family honor -should have seemed less irritating than grotesque to one who, like -Annette, had been only too well informed by her father about the secret -history of the family and knew how to take the measure of these -Aristarchuses. But Annette was in no laughing mood: she would seize her -pen and send off a biting reply, which added spite to their other -motives for condemning her and rendered the latter implacable. - -These austere censors could invoke as an excuse for their intervention -the much abused but still customary rights of relationship. But what -rights did strangers have to be severe with her, strangers who were not -harmed in any way because she did as she chose with herself? Meeting in -the street some amiable society woman in whose drawing-room she had once -been received, she would stop to exchange a few civil words. The other, -looking her over curiously and letting her talk, scarcely answering -herself, would presently pass on with a cold politeness. One woman, to -whom Annette had written asking for some information, did not reply. -Pursuing her inquiry, Annette wrote to a friend of her mother's, an old -lady whom she respected and who had shown some affectionate feeling for -herself; she suggested going to see her. In reply came an embarrassed -letter, expressing regret that the latter was unable to receive her: she -was leaving Paris. These little constantly repeated affronts wounded -Annette's sensibility. She was afraid of other rebuffs, but the strange -thing was that this fear led her nervously to provoke them. - -For example, in the case of her friend Lucile Cordier. The two young -women had known each other for a long time. In the society where they -moved Lucile was the person whom Annette liked best; and without being -very intimate they had always enjoyed seeing each other. Annette learned -from her aunt that Lucile's sister was going to be married. She had had -no word of this from Lucile. She wrote to congratulate her. Lucile -remained silent. Annette knew she ought not to insist. And yet she did -insist, through a strange need of being sure, of suffering. - -She went to Lucile's house. There was a sound of voices in the -drawing-room. It was her day at home. Annette remembered this just as -she entered the room. It was too late to turn back. The conversation was -animated. A dozen persons, almost all known to Annette. At her -appearance the voices stopped point-blank. Only for a few seconds. -Annette, anxious, but feeling that she was committed to a fight, -entered. With a smile on her lips, without looking to right or left, she -went up to Lucile. Lucile rose, embarrassed. Small and blonde, with -half-open, caressing, gentle and yet shrewd eyes, a tired little smile, -a mouse-like expression and rather prominent teeth, lively, indifferent -to people and ideas while appearing to be devoted to the former and -attached to the latter, she was cautious, weak, and not very frank; she -liked to please; she was anxious not to fall out with anyone and to get -along with everyone. So far as she was concerned, Annette's conduct had -not troubled her at all. Her sharp, inquisitive nose, always on the -alert, was amused by scandal. The adventure struck her as absurd and -would merely have diverted her if, from the worldly point of view, it -had not been embarrassing. When Annette wrote to her that she was coming -back, Lucile had thought, "What bad luck! How am I going to answer her?" - -She did not want to hurt Annette. On the other hand, she did not wish to -run the risk of being misjudged. Not being able to think of anything to -say in reply, she had put it off from day to day. She expected to see -Annette, but later (there was no hurry about it!)--when people would not -know about it. This did not prevent her from talking at Annette's -expense and assuming a scandalized air when she was with others. - -And now Annette's sudden appearance placed her--("This is too -much!")--under the obligation of making an immediate choice. Lucile was -much more angry with Annette for playing this mean trick on her than for -having had a child. ("Two, if she likes, if she would only leave me -alone!") - -With a furious little light in her eyes that was quickly extinguished, -she took the hand that Annette held out to her, answering her smile with -that honeyed smile of her own which Annette knew so well. (No one could -resist its tender seductiveness.) It lasted only for a moment. With all -those eyes flashing about her, with every ear alert, Lucile at once -perceived the irony of the company. Instantly her expression froze; -after a few words of welcome she affectedly resumed the interrupted -conversation, and with an unexpressed understanding everyone began to -talk again. - -Annette, left outside the conversation, realized that she was rejected. -But she did not accept this at all. She knew the weakness of Lucile's -character. Armed with her proud smile, seated in the midst of a group -which, without appearing to see her, seemed to be wholly occupied in -exchanging words that were as empty as they were lively, she glanced -about with her calm eyes at everybody in the room. The glances of the -others, meeting hers, turned aside to avoid her. One pair of eyes, -however, did not have time to escape. They remained fixed upon her, full -of annoyance and spite. Annette recognized the large doll-like face of -Marie-Louise de Baudru, the daughter of a rich lawyer, the wife of a -judge, whose family had always remained socially on cordial terms with -the Rivières while cherishing towards them a deep-seated antipathy. -Marie-Louise de Baudru incarnated in her stout person the most -substantial qualities of the upper bourgeoisie: order, probity, the lack -of curiosity, of charity, especially of intelligence, all the legal -virtues, a firm verbal faith, empty as a butcher's shop of doubts and -thought, and the religious worship of propriety, all the proprieties, -her family, her property, her country, her Church, her moral code, her -tradition and her negations. In short, a massive and compact ego like a -block obstructing the sun. No room, near her, for the tub of Diogenes! -Nothing was so repugnant to the Baudrus as independence of any kind, -religious, moral, intellectual, political or social. A natural aversion! -They confounded all its forms under the common taunt of "anarchism." -This anarchism they had always suspected in the Rivières. And -instinctively Marie-Louise, like the rest of her family, had distrusted -Annette. She could not pardon the liberty which Annette had enjoyed in -her education and her life as a young girl. There may have been a touch -of envy in these unkind judgments. One sole consideration kept her from -expressing them, the Rivières' fortune. Wealth commands esteem: it is -one of the pillars--the firmest--of the social order. But this is on -condition that it does not disturb the basis of everything, the legally -established family. The supporters of society are on the watch there: -hands off! Annette had struck at the cardinal principles. The watch-dog -had awakened, though it held its peace, for it does not bark in society. -But its look spoke for it, Annette perceived the bitterest scorn in that -of Marie-Louise de Baudru. Her eyes rested calmly on those of her plump -judge; and, addressing her with a little familiar bow, she forced her to -respond. Marie-Louise, choking with anger at not being able to resist -the injunction, bowed also, avenging herself by giving her coldest look. -Annette had already turned indifferently away, and her eyes, which were -making the tour of the drawing-room, returned to Lucile. - -Quite unembarrassed, she threw herself into the conversation that had -begun. She cut into the story Lucile was telling with a general remark -and obliged her to reply. They had to make room for her. They could not -help listening to her politely, with interest and even pleasure, for she -was so witty. But they did not reply, their minds wandered, they talked -about other things. The conversation died away, started up again in -little bursts, jumping from subject to subject. In the silence Annette -heard herself talking in a detached tone, and she listened to her own -voice as if it were that of a stranger: true woman that she was, fine, -sensitive and proud, she missed none of these little humiliations. -Accustomed from childhood to understand and use the equivocal language -of drawing-rooms, she could divine, under the veil of deliberate -inattentiveness, dubious smiles, disingenuous politeness, the wounds -that were intended for her. She was hurt, but she laughed, and she went -on talking. The others were thinking, "What poise that girl has!" - -Lucile took advantage of the departure of one of the guests to accompany -her to the door and escape from Annette. The latter found herself -abandoned to a group that had made up its mind to ignore her. Giving up -any attempt to prolong the ordeal, she was on the point of rising to -leave in turn when, crossing the drawing-room, Marcel Franck approached -her. He had come in some time before, though she had not noticed him, -for all her attention was occupied by her effort not to yield to the -discouragement that was overcoming her. And as, with a humorous pity, he -watched her talking, he admired her pride. He said to himself, "What -made you come here and brave these idiots? Crazy little thing! It's -enough to wring one's heart." - -He decided to lend her a helping hand. He bowed to her pleasantly. -Annette's grateful eyes lighted up. Everybody about them became silent, -all those hard, watching faces. "Well," he said, "so the globe-trotter -is back again. Have you had enough of '_contemplé son azur, ô -Méditerranée'_?" - -He wanted to turn the conversation to some harmless subject. But what -demon drove her on? Pride, the instinct of bravado, or simply frankness? -She replied gaily, "So far as the azure is concerned, I have scarcely -contemplated anything for months but my baby's eyes." - -A little breeze of irony passed over those who were near them. Smiles -and glances were discreetly exchanged. But Marie-Louise de Baudru rose -indignantly; red, with her stout breast swollen with enough angry -contempt to burst her gown, she pushed back her chair and, without -bowing to anyone, started for the door and went out. The temperature of -the drawing-room fell several degrees. Annette remained alone in her -corner with Marcel Franck. He looked at her, sorry for her, half -banteringly, and murmured, "You are imprudent." - -"How imprudent?" she asked in a clear voice. - -She seemed to be looking for something at her feet. Then she rose, -without haste, and, coldly bowing and bowed to, went out. - -No one who saw her in the street, walking along with her rhythmic step, -her head high, her cool, correct, indifferent air, would have suspected -the storm of contempt that was making her wounded heart leap. But, once -in the Boulogne house, she shut herself up in her room with the child -and pressed him to her with bitter tears. And she laughed defiantly. - - - - -VI - - -There were plenty of interesting houses in Paris where Annette would -have been honorably received--especially in the society that should have -been familiar to the daughter of Rivière the architect, among those -artists who live on the fringe of social Philistia, who, though they are -endowed with the traditional family spirit, have no prejudices and carry -the bourgeois virtues even into free unions. But Annette had little -acquaintance among the women of the artistic world. With a very orderly -mind and reserved manners that were anything but Bohemian, she had -little taste for their habits and conversation, though she had plenty of -respect for their great qualities of courage, good nature and endurance. -For it is certainly true that in ordinary life relations are founded -much less on respect than on a community of instincts and habits. -Besides, Raoul Rivière had long ago dropped his old companions. As soon -as his success had permitted him to enter the sphere of wealth and -official honors, this man of strong appetites had broken with the _haud -aurea mediocritas_. He had been too intelligent not to appreciate the -society of men who worked more than that of the Parisian drawing-rooms -which he criticized among his intimates with cruel irony, but he had -established himself in the latter because it gave him a wider pasturage. -He had managed to escape secretly into other and very mixed circles, -where he was able to satisfy his passion for pleasure and his need of -unrestrained independence, for he led a double or triple life. But few -were aware of this, and his daughter had had no knowledge of anything -but his outward and business life. - -Annette's social circle was virtually limited to this rich and more or -less distinguished upper bourgeoisie which, as a new reigning class, has -ended by diligent effort in creating for itself a shadow of tradition. -Indeed, along with the other attributes of power, it has purchased the -lamp of enlightenment--a lamp, however, that only shines from under a -heavy shade and dreads nothing so much as being moved, nothing so much -as the enlarging of the illumined circle on the table; for the least -change of position threatens to destroy its certitudes. Annette, who -instinctively loved the light, had sought for it where she could, in -those university studies which in her set were regarded as pretentious. -But the light she had found there had been much filtered; it was the -light of lecture-rooms and libraries, refracted, never direct. There -Annette had acquired a certain boldness of thought that was entirely -abstract and did not prevent the best of her comrades from being timid -and completely chaotic in the face of reality. Another film was -interposed between her eyes and the daylight outside, her fortune. In -spite of all she could do, this barrier separated her from the general -community. Annette did not suspect how shut in she was. That is the -other side of wealth: it is a privileged enclosure, but an enclosure -none the less, a garden that is walled in. - -And this was not all. Now that she had to leave her circle, Annette, -who, for a long time, had fearlessly considered what was awaiting her, -did not want to do so. Let him who disapproves of the illogical condemn -her! Man--woman still less--is not all of a piece, especially at those -transitional ages when the instincts of revolt and rebirth are mingled -with the conservative habits that paralyze them. One cannot at a stroke -liberate oneself from the prejudices of one's environment and the needs -one has acquired. Even the freest souls cannot do so. One has regrets, -doubts, one wants to lose nothing, one wants to have everything. -Annette, in her sincerity, with her need of love, with her need of being -free, with her desire not to be false, was still anxious not to -sacrifice her acquired advantages. She was willing to withdraw from her -social set; she could not endure being rejected by it; she could not -accept the idea of forfeiting it. And her youthful pride, which life had -not yet forced to lower its crest, refused to seek asylum in another -environment that was socially more humble, even if she respected it -more. This, in the eyes of the world, would have been to admit that she -was conquered. It was better to be isolated than _déclassée_. - -Trifling as these considerations were, they were not unreasonable. In -the struggle between the conventions of a class and one of its revolting -members who braves them, the class, which forms a solid block against -the imprudent soul as it casts him forth, drives him elsewhere and -watches for his weaknesses in order to justify its interdiction. - -In the world of Nature as soon as a symptom of weakness appears, and -some creature reveals itself as an object of prey, spider-webs are -stretched about it. There is nothing unfair about this, nothing -sinister. It is merely the natural law. Nature is always hunting. -Everyone in turn is hunter or hunted. Annette was the hunted. - -The hunters made their appearance. All unsuspecting, Annette received a -call from her friend Marcel Franck. - -She was alone in the house. The baby had gone out for his daily airing; -her aunt was with him. Annette, who was rather tired, was resting in her -room. She was not expecting to see anyone, but when Marcel's card was -brought to her she gladly sent word for him to come in. She was grateful -to him for having taken her part at Lucile's. Not that he had -compromised himself. But she had not expected that. - -Stretched out in her _chaise longue_, she received him unceremoniously -as an old friend. She was still in her morning négligé. Since she had -become a mother, she had lost her devotion to order and the meticulous -correctness that Sylvie had teased her about. Marcel was the last person -to mind this. He found her prettier than ever, with a fresh, attractive -plumpness, a gentle languor, a dewy look in her eyes which were softened -with happiness. Annette talked quite without reserve; she was pleased to -see once more the discerning confidant of her old hesitations. She liked -his intelligence, his intellectual tact; he inspired confidence in her. -Franck revealed all his old cordiality and fine comprehension, but from -the beginning of the conversation she was struck by the suggestion of a -new familiarity in his manner. - -They recalled their last meeting before Annette's unfortunate visit at -the Brissots' in Burgundy, and Annette agreed that Marcel had seen all -too clearly what was going to happen. She was anxious to speak of the -impossibility of her marriage to Roger, but a blush spread over her face -as it occurred to her that Marcel looked at the whole matter in quite a -different way and considered it a joke. Marcel remarked mischievously, -"You saw it as well as I." And he laughed at the turn the adventure had -taken. - -He had the air of being a sort of accomplice. Annette was confused, and -she concealed her feeling with a touch of irony. Marcel went a step -further: "You saw it much better than I did. We men are absurd enough to -believe that we can teach women out of our own precious wisdom, and we -get caught instead when, with their insidious voices, their big, -beautiful eyes, they anxiously ask us what they ought to do. They know -very well. They flatter our folly. We love to teach, but they can give -us cards and spades. When I foretold that you would not be caught in the -Brissots' net, I never suspected that you would escape from its meshes -in such a masterly way. It was a wonderful stroke. Well done! What can't -you do when you set your mind on it! I compliment you on your courage." -Annette listened to this with a feeling of embarrassment. How strange it -was! She had undertaken to vindicate her right to behave as she had -done; the other day, at Lucile's, she had been ready to affirm it -against the whole universe. But it made her uncomfortable to hear -herself praised in this tone by Marcel. Her modesty and her dignity were -hurt. "Don't compliment me," she said. "I have less courage than you -think. I didn't desire in advance what has happened. I never thought of -it." - -Then, seized with a scruple and too proud to lie, she continued, "I am -mistaken. Yes, I did think of it. But only to fear it, not to desire it. -And that is what remains incomprehensible to me. How could I have let it -happen, the thing I feared, that I didn't want?" - -"Quite natural," said Marcel. "What we fear hypnotizes us. After all, it -doesn't follow that because we fear a thing we don't desire it. But -everyone does not dare to do what he is afraid to do. You did dare. You -dared to make a mistake. One has to make mistakes in life. We learn -through our mistakes, and we must learn. Only, while you were daring, I -do think, my friend, that you might have taken precautions. Your partner -seems to me very much to blame for having left you with this burden to -bear." - -Annette, a little shocked, said, "It is not a burden to me." - -Marcel supposed that Annette in her generosity wanted to excuse Roger. -"You still love him?" he asked. - -"Whom?" Annette asked. - -"Good!" said Marcel, laughing. "Evidently you don't still love him." - -"I love my baby," said Annette. "The rest belongs to the past. And, as -for the past, one no longer feels sure that it ever existed. One doesn't -understand it any more. It's sad." - -"That has its charm too," said Marcel. - -"Not for me," said Annette. "I am not a dilettante. But my son is the -present, and it is a present that will last longer than I." - -"The present that repulses us, the present to which we in turn shall be -the past some day." - -"So much the worse for me!" said Annette. "Even so, it will be good to -be trampled on by his little feet." - -Marcel laughed at this passionate outburst. "You can't understand me," -said Annette. "You have not seen Marc, my little masterpiece. And even -if you saw him, you wouldn't know how to look at him. You are a good -judge of pictures, statues, useless knick-knacks. You couldn't judge -that unique marvel, the body of a little child. It would do no good for -me to describe him to you." - -She did describe him, however, lovingly and at length. She laughed at -her own ardent, exaggerated expressions, but she could not keep them -back. She broke off as she saw Marcel's indulgent, bantering look. "I am -boring you. Excuse me! You don't understand, do you?" - -"Of course." Marcel understood. Marcel understood everything. Everyone -to his own taste. He would not dispute that. - -"In short," he said, "to sum it up, you have blossomed out into -maternity. You have flown in the face of public order and the family as -established by law. And, far from regretting it, you defy authority." - -"What authority?" Annette asked. "I defy nothing." - -"Well, then, public opinion, tradition, the Code Napoléon." - -"I have nothing to do with all these things." - -"That's the worst kind of defiance, the kind people will never pardon. -But so be it! You have broken with everything, you have rid yourself of -the whole clan. What are you going to do now?" - -"Just what I did before." - -Marcel looked sceptical. - -"What, do you think I can't live as I used to do?" - -"It would hardly be worth while. And besides . . ." - -Marcel unhappily recalled the call at Lucile's: if she wished to resume -her old place in society Annette would meet with little success. She -knew this: it was unnecessary for anyone to tell her, and in her wounded -pride she had no desire to repeat the experience. But she was surprised -by Marcel's insistence in pointing this out to her; he was usually more -tactful. - -"Well," she said, "it matters very little now that I have my child." - -"But you can't reduce your existence merely to him." - -"I don't think that would be reducing it. Enlarging it, I should say. I -see a world in him, a world that is going to grow. I shall grow with -it." - -With much solicitude and no less irony, Marcel set to work to prove to -her that this world would not be enough for a nature as eager and -exacting as hers. With knitted brows and a pang at her heart Annette -listened to him. Mentally, in her irritation, she protested, "No, no!" - -She could not help being anxious, however, when she remembered that once -before Marcel had had such clear foresight. But why was he so bent upon -convincing her of it? Why should he take so much trouble to prove to her -that she should profit by the liberty she had won, that she should not -be afraid of living on the fringe of society? (He called it "outside and -above the bourgeois conventions.") - -There were in Annette two or three Annettes who always bore one another -company. As a general thing, only one spoke while the others listened. -Just now two of them were speaking at once: the passionate, sentimental -Annette who was the victim of her impressions and their willing dupe, -and another who observed and was amused at the hidden motives of the -heart. She had good eyes. She saw through Marcel. They had changed -places. Formerly it had been he who read her secret thoughts. To-day, -to-day there had come to Annette (just when?--exactly from the moment of -her 'metamorphosis') an insight into souls and their secret -movements--intermittent, to be sure--the novelty of which surprised and -amused her in the midst of her anxieties. - -Stretched out in her chair, with her head thrown back, her arms behind -her neck and her mouth slightly open, she studied the ceiling; but out -of the corner of her half-closed eyes she watched Marcel as he talked. -She could have uttered in advance the words he was about to say; she -could have sworn what was going to happen. With an amused curiosity that -was a little sarcastic, for which she reproached herself, she let him go -on. - -(One must see and know, as he said just now, one must learn . . . -learn. . . .) - -She was learning to understand a friend. - -(Yes, I understand you. . . . An Annette fallen from the tree would be -good to pick up again. He is gently shaking the tree to make her tumble -off. He is speculating on Annette's confusion. And yet he is in love -with her. Yes, he is certainly in love with her. Not very bright, -brother man! His voice begins to have a coaxing sound. See how tender he -is growing. And now, look out! I wager he is going to bend over me.) - -Several seconds in advance she foresaw Marcel's blond beard leaning -towards her; she foresaw the caressing mouth that was about to alight on -hers. She wanted to spare him the humiliation. And just at the exact -moment she rose, and, with her outstretched hands, gently pushed -Marcel's shoulders away. - -"Good-bye, my friend," she said. - -Marcel looked into those penetrating eyes that were scrutinizing him -with a little malice in their depths. He smiled. He had been mistaken. -But it had been a good battle. He was perfectly aware that, with all the -calmness in the world, he had been given his dismissal. And yet, of this -he was sure, Annette's feeling towards him was not one of indifference. -Let whoever could understand it! The strange girl was escaping him. - - - - -VII - - -Marcel did not reappear, and Annette took no steps to bring him back. -They were still friends, but each was angry with the other. Just because -Annette's feeling towards Marcel was not one of indifference, she was -touched by what she had seen in him. She was not offended by this; it -was the old story . . . Too old a story! . . . No, Annette had no -grievance against Marcel. Only, only she could not forget what had -happened! That is the way it is with forgivenesses granted by the mind -which the heart does not ratify. Secretly bitter, she was forced to -recognize, even more through Marcel's too free attempt than through the -harsh welcome she had encountered in Lucile's drawing-room, that her -situation was changed. She realized that she was no longer protected by -the conventional consideration that society accords to those of its -members who appear to submit to its laws. She would have to defend -herself alone. She was exposed. - -She closed her door to the world. She took care not to tell Sylvie of -the experiences she had had; Sylvie had predicted them and she would be -triumphant. She kept her secret and shut herself up with her child. She -had decided henceforth to live only for him. - -When little Marc came back from his airing in the evening, after -Marcel's call, she welcomed him with transports. He laughed when he saw -her and stretched out to her his four wriggling paws. She fell on him as -a starved wolf falls on its prey; she devoured him with kisses; she -pretended to eat every morsel of his body; she thrust his little feet -into her mouth; and as she undressed him she tickled him from head to -foot with her lips. "Yum-yum! I'm going to eat you up! That fool!" she -exclaimed, calling him to witness. "That fool who had the impudence to -tell me that you would not be enough for me! What insolence! You not -enough for me, my king, my little god! Tell me that you are my little -god! And what am I then? The little god's mother! The world belongs to -us! All the things we are going to do together! See everything, have -everything, try everything, taste everything, create everything!" - -And indeed they did create everything. To discover and to create, are -they not the same thing? To invent is to find. One finds what one -invents, one discovers what one creates, what one dreams of, what one -draws up from the fish-pond of one's musings. For the two of them, -mother and child, it was the hour of great discoveries. The first words -of the little boy, the game of exploration, when one measures the world -with one's arms and legs. Every morning Annette, with her child, set out -for conquest. She enjoyed it as much as he, perhaps more. It seemed to -her that she was reliving her own childhood, but with complete -consciousness and complete joy. He, the gay little soul, was full of joy -too. He was a beautiful child, healthy, chubby all over, a little pink -pig just ready for the spit. ("What else could you expect?" as Sylvie -said.) In his plump, elastic body there was too much compressed force; -he was like a rubber ball that insists upon bouncing. Every new contact -with life threw him into a clamorous delight. The enormous power of -dreaming that belongs to every baby amplified his discoveries and -prolonged the vibrations of happiness into veritable chimes of bells. -Annette was never behind him; it was as if they were having a contest as -to who should be the happiest and make the most noise. Sylvie said that -Annette was crazy, but she would have behaved the same way herself. And -after this tumult they would both have hours of absolute, delicious, -exhausted silence. The little one, tired out after so much movement, -slept obliviously. Annette was dropping with fatigue, but for a long -time she would refuse to go to sleep in order to enjoy the other's -slumber; and the fire of her love, driven back into her heart, hidden -like the light of a candle behind one's hand so as not to awaken the -little sleeper, burned with a long silent flame that rose upward to -heaven. She prayed . . . Mary beside the manger . . . She prayed to the -child. - -These months were still beautiful and shining. But they were not as pure -as those of the previous year. Less limpid. They were full of an -exalted, excessive joy that was a little exaggerated. - -A vigorous, healthy nature like Annette's must create, perpetually -create, create with its whole being, body and spirit. Create, or else -brood over the creation that is to be. It is a necessity, and happiness -comes only through satisfying it. Every creative period has its own -limited field, and its rising force follows a trajectory that descends -again sharply. Annette had passed the summit of the curve. Nevertheless, -the transport of creation persists in the mother for a very long time -after childbirth. Suckling prolongs the transfusion of the blood, and -invisible bonds keep the two bodies in communication. The creative -abundance of the spirit of the infant compensates for the impoverishment -of the spirit of the mother. The river that is running out tries to -replenish itself from the stream that is flowing over. It becomes a -torrent so as to merge with the little torrent. But strive as it may, -the little one outruns it. The child was already withdrawing into the -distance. Annette had difficulty in following him. - -Before he was able to frame a complete sentence he already had his -little hidden thoughts, cupboards of which he kept the keys. Heaven knew -what he concealed there: his reflexions on people, his scraps of -reasoning, odds and ends of images, sensations, play-words the sound of -which amused him, though he did not know what they meant, a singing -monologue that had no sequence, no end, no beginning. He was perfectly -well aware, perhaps not of what he was hiding, but that he was hiding -something. For the more one tried to find out what he was thinking, the -more mischievously he refused to let one know. He even amused himself -sometimes putting one off the track; with his little tongue, which was -as clumsy as his hands, as it stumbled about among the syllables, he was -already trying to lie, to mystify people. It was a pleasure to prove his -own importance to others and to himself by making fun of those who tried -to penetrate into his private domain. This scrap of a being, scarcely -born, had the fundamental instinct of the _mine_ that is not yours--of -"You shan't have any of my peanuts." His whole wealth lay in fragments -of thoughts: he built walls to hide them from his mother's eyes. And -she, with that lack of foresight which is common to all mothers, was -proud that he knew so well how to say the No with which he so early -manifested his personality. She haughtily proclaimed, "He has a will of -iron." - -She thought she had forged this iron herself. But against whom? - -Against herself, to begin with; for, in the eyes of this little ego, she -was the not-I, the external world, a habitable external world, of -course, warm, soft and milky, that one could exploit, that one wanted to -dominate. External to the I . . . I am not it. I possess it. But it does -not possess me! - -No, she did not possess him! She began to feel it; this Lilliputian -intended to belong to no one but himself. He needed her, but she needed -him: the child's instinct told him so. In all probability, this -instinct, guarded by his egocentricity, told him that she needed him -much more and that it was therefore quite fair for him to abuse it. And, -heaven knows, this was true: she did need him much more. - -"Well, fair or not, abuse me, little monster! Just the same, it's no -use, you can't get along without me for a long time yet. I hold you. -There, I plunge you into your bath. Protest, young carp! . . . He looks -insulted; his mouth is open, as if this little personage were choking -with indignation at being treated like a bundle. . . . And I turn you -and turn you again! Heavens, what music! You are going to be a singer, -my son. Well, cry out your do-re-me. Bravo! You do the singing, but it's -I who make you dance. . . . Isn't it a shame for me to abuse your -weakness in this way? Oh, how mean this mother is! Poor midget! Well, -you'll avenge yourself on her when you are grown up. Meanwhile, protest! -In spite of your dignity, look, I'm going to kiss you on your little -behind." - -He kicked. She laughed. But it was in vain she held him; she held only -the shell. The animal within escaped into his burrow. Every day he -became more difficult to grasp. It was a loving chase, a passionate -struggle. But it was a struggle, a chase. One had to keep one's wind. - -The thousand little regular attentions that a baby demands fill the -days. Simple, monotonous as they are, they do not allow one to think of -anything else. Aside from _him_, always _him_, one's mind is in shivers. -The swiftest thought is interrupted ten times over. The child invades -everything; this little mass of flesh blocks one's horizon. Annette did -not complain. She did not even have time to regret it. She lived in a -plenitude of busy fatigue that was a blessing to her at first, but that -gradually became an obscure weariness. One's strength is used up, one's -soul wanders aimlessly: it does not stay where one has left it. It -follows its way like a sleep-walker, and when it awakens it does not -know where it is. Annette woke up one day conscious of a load of fatigue -that had been accumulating for months, and an indefinable shadow mingled -with the joy that dwelt in her. - -She was unwilling to attribute this to anything but physical exhaustion; -and to prove to herself that her happiness was in no way altered she -manifested it in more clamorous effusions than were necessary. -Especially before others, as if she were afraid that they would discover -in her what she did not wish to be seen. This exaggerated gaiety was -followed later, when she was alone, by depression. Sadness? No. An -obscure uneasiness, a vague restlessness, the feeling, which she -repressed, of a partial dissatisfaction. Not that she expected anything -from outside (she could still get along without that), but she suffered -from the unemployment of a part of her nature. Certain forces of the -mind had been at a standstill for a long time; the economy of her being -had undergone a disturbance. Annette, deprived of society, driven back -upon herself alone and feeling the sting of a nostalgia that she tried -to stifle, tried to find a resource in the company of books. But the -volumes remained open at the same page; the brain had become -unaccustomed to the effort of following the unfolding chain of the -words; the continual breaks which the constant preoccupation with the -child made in her thought dislocated her attention and shook it, -somnolent and enervated as it was, as a moored ship dances on the -current without the power either to advance or to remain still. Instead -of reacting, Annette remained shut up in herself, musing drowsily over -the open book; or she tried to divert herself in a flood of passionate -nonsense with the child. Sylvie, who saw that she could not find -expression for her multiple energy with the little one, said to her, -"You should go out more, take exercise, walk as you used to do." - -For the sake of peace, Annette said she would go out, but she did not -budge. She had a reason which she kept to herself: she was afraid of -meeting her old friends and exposing herself to some slight, some coldly -distant greeting. A superficial reason which she gave herself. In former -times she would have ignored these petty offences, but now she had a -neurasthenic tendency to avoid all contacts. Then why not leave Paris -and live in the country, as Sylvie advised? She did not say she would -not, but she did nothing; it involved making a decision, and she was not -willing to stir from her torpor. - -So she allowed her motionless days to float along, without a wave, like -a becalmed sea that is preparing to ebb. An interlude, an apparent -arrest in the eternal rhythm of respiration: the breath is suspended. -Joy is tiptoeing away. Trouble is approaching on muffled feet. The -trouble has not yet come. But a _nescio quid_ warns one: "Do not move!" -It is waiting outside the door. - - - - -VIII - - -It entered. But it was not what she had expected. It is useless to -attempt to foresee happiness or trouble. When they arrive they are never -what we have looked for. - -One night when, suspended between sky and sea, on the borders of -happiness and melancholy, Annette was skirting the cape of sleep, -without knowing whether she was on this side of it or that, she became -aware of a danger. Unaware whence it was coming or what it was, she -collected her strength to fly to the help of the child who was sleeping -near her. For already her consciousness, which never slept without one -ear open, had realized that he was threatened. She forced herself to -awaken and listened anxiously. She was not mistaken. Even when she was -sound asleep the slightest alteration in the breathing of the dear -little creature reached her. The respiration of the child was hurried; -by a mysterious osmosis, Annette felt the oppression in her own chest. -She turned on the light and leaned over the cradle. The little one was -not awake; he was sleeping uneasily; his face was not red, which seemed -to the mother a reassuring symptom; she touched his body, found the skin -dry, the extremities cold; she covered him more warmly. This seemed to -quiet him. She watched him for a few minutes, then turned out the light, -trying to persuade herself that the alarm would not be repeated. But -after a brief respite the hoarse breathing began again. Annette deceived -herself as long as she possibly could. "No, he is not breathing harder -or more quickly. It's only that I am agitated." - -As if her will could impose itself upon the child, she forced herself to -remain motionless. But it was no longer possible to doubt. The -oppression was increasing, the breath came more quickly. And with a fit -of coughing the child woke up and began to cry. Annette leaped out of -bed. She took the child in her arms. He was burning, his face was pale, -his lips were blue. Annette was distracted. She called Aunt Victorine, -who only added her own agitation to the scene. That very day the -telephone had been disconnected for repairs, and there was no way of -communicating with the doctor. There was no druggist in the -neighborhood. The Boulogne house was isolated; the maid was unwilling to -run through the deserted streets at this hour of the night. They would -have to wait for morning. And the sickness was growing worse. It was -enough to make one lose one's head. Annette very nearly did so; but -knowing that she must not she did not. Her aunt, whimpering, fluttered -like a fly about the globe of a lamp. Annette said to her harshly, "It -does no good to groan. Help me! Or, if you can't do anything, go to -sleep and leave me alone. I will save him by myself." - -Her aunt, petrified by this, recovered her composure; her long -experience as a watcher at sickbeds dispelled Annette's most terrible -apprehension, that of diphtheria. Annette retained an unspoken doubt; so -did her aunt. One may always be mistaken. And even if it was not -diphtheria, there were so many other mortal disorders. Not to know what -it was added still more to their fright. But whether or not Annette's -heart was frozen with terror, her movements were calm and just what they -should have been. Without knowing it, moved by the maternal instinct -alone, she did exactly the right thing for the child. (So the doctor -told her the next day.) She did not leave him lying on his back for -long, she changed his position, she struggled against his fits of -suffocation. What neither experience nor science could have taught her -the love within her dictated, for she suffered what he suffered. She -suffered more. She regarded herself as responsible for it. - -Responsible! The tension of an ordeal, especially of an illness that -strikes a beloved being, often creates a superstitious state of mind in -which one needs to accuse oneself for the suffering of the innocent one. -Annette not only reproached herself for not having watched over the -child, for having been imprudent with him, but she discovered that she -had criminal thoughts in the back of her mind: a passing weariness of -the child, the shadow of an unconfessed regret that her life should have -been swamped in his. Was it quite certain that she had really felt and -repressed this regret, this weariness? No doubt, since they emerged at -this moment. But who could say whether she had not invented them through -this need she felt, when she was powerless to act in a practical way, to -act in thought, even if it meant turning her desperate energies against -herself? - -She turned them also against the great Enemy, against the unknown God. -As she saw the little swollen face, as she breathed her breath into him, -softly raising him in her hands with careful movements, she passionately -asked his pardon for having brought him into the world, stolen him away -from peace, thrown him into this life a prey to suffering, to mischance, -to the evil hazards of heaven knew what blind master! And with her flesh -creeping, like an animal at the entrance of his burrow, she growled, she -sniffed the approach of the great murderous deities; she prepared to -fight with them for her child, she bared her teeth. Like every mother -whose child is threatened, she was the eternal Niobe who, in order to -turn the mortal shaft against herself, hurls her furious defiance at the -Murderer. - -But no one in Annette's household divined this silent battle. - -In the morning the doctor came; he complimented her on her presence of -mind and the first steps she had taken--so different from what sometimes -happens when an anxious affection spoils everything by its awkwardness. -But she only grasped from his words what he said about the epidemics of -grippe and measles that were raging in Paris and the possibility that -her child had caught the germs of bronchial pneumonia. In refusing to -leave Paris, as she had promised to do, she had thus been guilty towards -the child. She judged herself pitilessly. This sentence she passed on -herself had at least the advantage of limiting the field of her -responsibility, for it dispelled any other remorse. - -At the first news, Sylvie had arrived hastily, and the little patient -had plenty of attention. But Annette, refusing to leave her place, took -hardly any rest and remained in the breach during the days, the nights, -the days. The perspiration on the little body and its burning -suffocation melted her own being. The illness kneaded them into one -mass. The child seemed to be aware of this, for in the moments when the -fear of an attack of coughing contracted his sides his eyes rested, -heavy with reproaches and an appeal for help, on the eyes of the mother. -He seemed to be saying, "It's going to hurt me again! There it is coming -back! Save me!" - -And, pressing him to her, she would reply, "Yes, I shall save you! Don't -be afraid, it's not going to get you!" - -The attack came, and the child strangled. But he was not alone. She -stiffened with him in order to break the noose. He felt that she was -struggling, that she, the great protectress, would not abandon him; and -the reassuring sound of her gentle voice and the pressure of her fingers -gave him confidence, said to him, "I am here." - -As he cried and struck the air with his little arms, he knew she would -fight it. - -And she did fight it, the nameless thing. The illness yielded. The noose -relaxed. And the little birdlike body of the child, still palpitating, -abandoned itself to the hands that had saved it. How good it was to -breathe, the two of them, after that plunge into the depths! The wave of -air that streamed through the mouth of the child bathed the throat of -the mother and swelled her breasts with an icy pleasure. - -These respites were of short duration. The struggle continued, -alternating with periods of exhaustion. His condition was improving when -the child had a sudden relapse from some unknown cause. His faithful -watchers naturally tormented themselves all the more, accusing -themselves of some moment of forgetfulness that had threatened his -recovery. Annette said to herself, "If he dies, I shall kill myself." - -For many nights she had been used to going without sleep; she kept it up -as long as the child needed her aid, but during the hours when he slept -and her own mind, reassured, might have made the most of this and -relaxed, her spirit was more uneasy than ever. It vibrated like a -telegraph-wire in the wind. Impossible to close her eyes. It was -dangerous for her to lie there facing her distracted brain. Annette -would turn on the light again and try to fix her mind upon some definite -line of thought in order to escape from this vertigo. But it was only to -turn over and over all sorts of superstitious, childish, extravagant -ideas--or so they appeared to a mind that was accustomed to rational -methods. She told herself that if calamity hung over her it was because -she had been too completely happy, and it seemed to her that if her son -was to recover she must suffer in some other direction. An obscure, -powerful belief in some painful compensation, mounting up from the -depths of time. Primitive peoples, in order to placate the ferocious -bargaining god, the god who never gives something for nothing and -demands cash payments, used to sacrifice their first-born: they -purchased with this ransom the safety of the rest of their fortunes. And -for her first-born Annette would gladly have given her life and all her -wealth. - -"Take my all," she said, "but let him live!" - -Then at once she thought, "This is absurd. Nobody is listening to me." - -It was no use. The old atavistic instinct continued to scent, somewhere -about her, the presence of the jealous God. And, holding on, bargaining -bitterly, she said, "Let us make an agreement. I am willing to pay on -the spot. The child is mine. Take your choice of the rest!" - -As if to justify her superstition, events took Annette at her word. One -morning, when Aunt Victorine had gone to the lawyer's to get some money -that he should have sent them some time before, she came back in tears. -That very morning Annette had had the joy of being finally reassured -about her child's health. The doctor had just left: this time he had -announced that the child was definitely convalescent. Annette, in a -transport of happiness, but still trembling, hardly dared to believe in -her newly recovered happiness. At this moment she saw the door opening -and at the first glance perceived her aunt's broken look. Her heart -throbbed as she thought, "What new misfortune has befallen us?" - -The old lady could hardly speak. At last she said, "The office is -closed. M. Grenu has disappeared." - -Annette's whole fortune was in his charge. For a moment she did not -understand. Then--explain it if you can--her face cleared. She was -relieved. She thought, "Is that all?" - -So there it was, the saving calamity! The enemy had taken his portion. - -A moment afterward she shrugged her shoulders at her silliness. But in -spite of her irony she continued to say to it, "Was that enough? Are you -satisfied? Now that I have paid, I owe you nothing more." - -She smiled. Poor humanity, clutching at its morsel of happiness and -seeing it unceasingly, unceasingly escaping, tries to conclude a pact -with blind nature, which it creates in its own image. - -"In my image? This envious, rapacious, cruel nature. Is it posable that -I resemble it? Who knows? Who can say, 'I am not that'?" - - - - -IX - - -Annette was ruined. She could not yet estimate the extent of her ruin. -But when the first moment of aberration had passed, when she coldly -examined the situation, she had to admit that she thoroughly deserved -it. - -She was quite capable of attending to her affairs. Like her father, she -had a good hard head; figures had no terrors for her. When one comes of -a line of peasants and shrewd, energetic tradesfolk, one must make an -actual effort to lose one's assurance in practical matters. But she had -been spared all thought about material things as long as her father was -alive; and since then she had passed through a long crisis in which the -inner travail of her emotional life had held her captive. In this rather -abnormal state, maintained by the idleness made possible by her fortune, -she had felt a rather unhealthy disgust at paying any attention to her -property. It should be said boldly that the idealism of the inner life -which despises money as parasitical forgets that it has the right to do -so only when it gives up money. The idealism that grows out of a soil of -wealth and professes to have no interest in it is the worst form of -parasitism. - -To escape from the boredom of managing her fortune, she had turned the -whole administration of it over to the excellent M. Grenu, her lawyer. -An old family friend, a respected man whose honor and professional -standing were well known, M. Grenu had for thirty years overseen all the -Rivières' affairs as they passed through his office. It was true that -Raoul had not allowed any one to manage them without consulting him. -However much confidence he may have placed in his lawyer, he never -allowed him to make out a deed without verifying every period and comma -himself. But after taking all precautions, he did have confidence in -him, and when a man of his shrewdness has confidence in another the -other must deserve it. M. Grenu did deserve it. As much as anybody in -the world (when the precautions were taken) . . . - -The rôle of lay confessor, which the lawyer is called upon to play in a -family, had placed M. Grenu in possession of many of the Rivières' -household secrets. He had been unaware of very few of Raoul's escapades -or Mme. Rivière's sorrows. To the former he had lent a sympathetic ear, -to the latter an ear equally complacent. As an advisor of the wife he -appreciated her virtues; as the companion of Raoul, he appreciated the -latter's vices (they were virtues too, Gallic virtues); and it was said -that he was not above joining in some of Raoul's select parties. M. -Grenu was a little grizzled man in his sixties, delicate in appearance, -with a fresh complexion, excessively correct, malicious and -smooth-tongued, a good fellow, an amusing actor; he liked to tell -stories and would begin in a low, faint voice so that people would take -pains to listen to him, a voice so soft that it seemed to be dying; -then, when he had won from the audience a pitying silence, he would -gradually spread out into a sonorous volume of sound that a big clarinet -might have envied, and he would not abandon the stop till the final note -when he had finished his song. He was a lawyer of the old school, but a -weak man, attracted by the new ways, a good paterfamilias, an -old-fashioned bourgeois, proud of being able to count a number of -actresses, high livers and light women among his clientele, and it was -his hobby to speak of himself as old and even to act so, exaggeratedly; -but he was very much afraid of being taken at his word and in secret -applied himself ardently to showing that he was livelier than all these -young folks and could leave them far behind. - -He had known Annette since her childhood, and he had taken her affairs -very sincerely to heart. It seemed to him natural that she should -confide in him after the death of her parents. With professional -correctness, at first, he had scrupulously kept her posted; he was -unwilling to do anything without her consent--which only bored Annette. -Then he induced her to give him a special power of attorney for this or -that transaction of which Annette heard (scarcely heard) a very vague -account. And finally it was taken for granted that, since Annette made -frequent trips away from Paris, often without leaving her address, M. -Grenu would look out for her interests as best he could without -consulting her. Thus everything went well: the lawyer took charge of -everything, collected Annette's income and provided her with money as -she needed it. At last, in order to regularize the situation, he caused -her to give him a general power of attorney. . . . Water flowed under -the bridges. . . . It was more than a year since Annette had seen M. -Grenu, who, punctually, at the beginning of each quarter, turned over to -her the amount that was due. Living alone, away from Parisian society, -no longer reading the newspapers, she did not hear of events until long -after they had happened. Old M. Grenu had tried to be too clever. -Without any personal spirit of greed, he had allowed himself to be -caught by his fondness for speculation; to increase the funds of his -clients, he involved them in risky enterprises in which they were -capsized. Then in his attempts to make up their losses he ruined them. -Without warning Annette, he had not only disposed of all her ready money -and the personal property of which he had charge, but, by certain -subterfuges that were permitted by the elastic form of the power of -attorney, he had mortgaged the Boulogne house and the house in Burgundy. -When all was lost he fled before the ridicule which he knew would follow -his downfall and which would perhaps have been more intolerable to him -than dishonor. - -To crown the misfortune, Annette, entirely absorbed in the child's -illness, had not opened her correspondence for several weeks. She had -not replied to the letters of the mortgage-holders or the court summons -that followed. It was during the days of the child's relapse. Annette -had lost her head. Not realizing that they were addressed to her and not -to her agent, she sent the papers off without reading them to the -lawyer, who did not read them either--for a good reason. He was on the -run. When at last the recovery of her child left her mind free enough to -examine the situation, the judicial procedure had advanced so far that, -in Annette's failure to satisfy the demands of the creditors, the latter -had won the right to have the mortgaged property put up for sale. -Annette, awakened from her torpor, had to face this stunning blow; with -the energy that was restored in an instant and the practical -intelligence, inherited from her father, that made up for her -inexperience, she fought with a vigor and a clearness of mind which the -judge admired even while he decided against her: for her good excuses -did not alter the fact that before the law her case was bad. Annette -herself saw at once that she had lost in advance, but her fighting -instinct, which coolly admitted her defeat, unjust as it was, could not -admit it without resistance. Besides, she was concerned now for her -child's property. She defended it, step by step, with the tenacity of a -rude, shrewd peasant who, bracing her legs at the gate of her field, -bars the road to intruders, trying to gain time even though she knows -they are coming in. But what could she do? In her inability to pay the -sum that was demanded, and not wishing to ask aid from her relatives or -from the old friends who would probably have refused it in some -humiliating way, she could not stop the sale. Her ingenious, stubborn -energy only succeeded in obtaining the suspension, for a limited time, -of the proceedings of expropriation, without any hope of preventing -their execution after a brief delay. - -Annette would have had some excuse if she had been overwhelmed by this -catastrophe. Sylvie, who had not been personally injured by it, now -burst into lamentations, now angrily talked of nothing but law-suits, -law-suits, law-suits. Annette, on the contrary, seemed to have recovered -her equilibrium through this very event. The ordeal had cleared the air. -The soft, sentimental atmosphere that for two or three years had been -cloying her heart was dissipated. When Annette was certain that the -situation could not be changed, she accepted it. Without useless -recriminations. Unlike Sylvie, who heaped the harshest maledictions on -the lawyer's head, she found no comfort in blaming M. Grenu. The old man -was in the water. So was she. But she had her youthful arms, and she -could swim. Perhaps this thought was not even entirely unpleasant to -her. Strange as it may seem, along with the distress of her ruin she had -at bottom an inquisitive desire for adventure and even a secret pleasure -in putting her unused energies to the test. Raoul would have understood -her, Raoul who, at the height of his success, had been seized at moments -with a fancy for destroying his life's work just to have the pleasure of -rebuilding it. - -She prepared now to leave the Boulogne house. The property in Burgundy -had already been sold, hastily, on absurd terms. It was certain that the -total sale would scarcely cover the debt and the costs, and that, if -there remained an available surplus, it would not be enough for the -maintenance of Annette and her family; she would have to look for new -resources. For the moment, the main thing was to reduce expenses and -settle in some very modest establishment. Annette set out to look for an -apartment. Sylvie found one for her on the fourth floor of her own -house. (She lived on the _entresol_.) The rooms were small and opened on -the court, but they were clean and quiet. It was impossible to bring all -the furniture from the Boulogne house here. Annette wanted to keep only -what was absolutely necessary. But Aunt Victorine, weeping, begged her -to preserve everything. Annette remonstrated that it was not reasonable, -in their present situation, to assume the expense of a store-room. They -must make a choice, and the old lady begged for each object. Annette -firmly chose; aside from the furniture that was to follow them to the -new apartment, she kept a few pieces that were particularly dear to her -aunt, and the rest were sold. - -Sylvie was struck by Annette's insensibility. But it was impossible to -suppose that the courageous girl did not feel a little sad. She loved -this house which she had to leave. . . . How many memories she had! How -many dreams! But she repressed them. She well knew that she could not -entertain them with impunity. They were too much, they would have taken -everything; she needed all her strength at this moment. - -Just once, taken by surprise, she gave way before their assault. It was -one afternoon, shortly before the movers were to come. Her aunt was at -church and Marc was at Sylvie's. Annette, alone in the Boulogne house, -where everything spoke of their approaching departure, was kneeling on a -half-rolled rug, folding up a tapestry that had been taken down. -Occupied with her task, while her active hands came and went, her head -was busy calculating about the new arrangements. But she still had room -for dreams; for her eye, floating for an instant far from the present -vision, fastened in its mistiness upon a design in the tapestry which -her hands were rolling up: it recognized this design. A motif of pale -flowers, almost worn away; butterflies' wings, detached petals? It -mattered little; but Annette's eyes as a child had fallen there, and on -this canvas they had embroidered the tapestry of the days that had fled. -And this tapestry had suddenly emerged from the night. Annette's hands -ceased to wander; her mind, for one moment more, persisted in repeating -the figures of which it had lost the thread, then was still. And -Annette, letting herself slip down upon the floor, with her forehead on -the roll of the rug and her face in her hands, lay there with her knees -drawn up, abandoned herself to the wind and the flood, set sail. . . . -She did not voyage towards any particular country. . . . Such a mass of -memories--lived? dreamed?--how distinguish between them? Dizzy symphony -of a moment of silence! It contained much more than the substance of a -life. In active thought, the consciousness, when it believes it takes -possession of our inner world, only seizes the crest of the wave at the -moment when the sun-ray gilds it. Reverie alone perceives the moving -abyss and its torrential rhythm, those innumerable drops, scudding along -on the wind of the ages, seeds of thought of the beings from whom we -spring and who will spring from us, that formidable chorus of hopes and -regrets whose trembling hands stretch out towards the past or the -future. Indefinable harmony that forms the tissue of an illuminated -second, and that sometimes a shock is enough to awaken. A bouquet of -pale flowers had just evoked it in Annette. - -When she pulled herself together, after a long silence, she rose -hastily, and with hands that were suddenly awkward, hasty, trembling, -she finished folding up the tapestry without looking at it. She did not -quite finish it, she threw it into a box, incompletely rolled, and fled -from the room. . . . No, she did not want to stay with these thoughts! -It was better to escape from them. Later she would have time enough to -regret the past, when she would herself belong to the past . . . later, -in the twilight of her life. For the moment, she was too full of the -future, she must see it through. Her dreams lay ahead of her. "I don't -want to know what is behind me; I must not turn around." - -She walked down the street, hastening her steps, tense, looking neither -to right nor left . . . the years, the years, the life that was -coming . . . that of her child, her own, the new life, the Annette of -to-morrow. - - - - -X - - -She had this vision in her eyes on the evening when she established -herself in Sylvie's house. Sylvie, as soon as her shop was closed, -hastened to climb up to her sister's apartment to distract her from the -regrets she supposed the latter must be feeling. She found her walking -back and forth in her narrow room, not at all tired after the exhausting -day, trying to make her too diminutive cupboards hold her clothes and -her linen. Unsuccessful in this, perched on a stool, with her arms full -of sheets, looking at the filled shelves, she was meditating another -plan, whistling like a boy a Wagnerian fanfare that she absent-mindedly -travestied, giving it a burlesque turn. Sylvie looked at her and said, -"Annette, I admire you." (She did not mean quite as much as this.) - -"Why?" asked Annette. - -"If I were in your place, how I should rage!" - -Annette began to laugh. Absorbed in her work, she made a sign to her -sister to be silent. - -"I think I've got it," she said. - -She buried her head and her arms in the cupboard, arranging, -disarranging, rummaging. - -"I said so," she remarked, "and I have." - -(She was addressing a cupboard that was full, arranged, conquered.) - -She descended, victorious, from the stool. - -"Rage, Sylvie?" she said. (She was holding her by the chin.) "When you -were a child you played at building houses with dominoes. When the house -fell, did you get angry?" - -"I banged the dominoes on the floor," said Sylvie. - -"And I said, Biff! I'll build another." - -"You'll have to admit that you shook the table!" - -"Well, I wouldn't swear I didn't," said Annette. - -Sylvie called her an anarchist. - -"What!" said Annette. "Isn't that just what you are?" - -Sylvie was not. She could laugh at order and authority when she wanted -to do so, but she felt the need of order and authority. Even if it was -only to apply them to other people. For her, as for others, there was no -pleasure in revolting unless it was against some authority. And as for -order, Sylvie was well supplied with it. She did not cavil at the -established order except in so far as it was not her own. She did not -reproach it for being established. An order should be established. Since -she too was established, as an employer, directing her own business, she -was all for a stable order. Annette made this discovery with surprise. -Nor was this the only discovery she made. You do not know another human -being unless you see him in that everyday activity which brings his -energies to a head and reveals his natural movements and gestures. -Annette had never seen Sylvie except during her idle times, her times of -relaxation. Who can judge of a cat stretched out on a soft cushion? You -must see it on the warpath with its back arched and the green fire in -its eyes. - -Annette was now seeing Sylvie in her own field, the portion of earth she -had cleared for herself in the Parisian jungle. The little business -woman had taken her trade seriously, and she was second to no one in the -art of managing her affairs. Annette could observe her at leisure and -close by; for, during the first weeks that followed her moving, she took -her meals with Sylvie; it had been agreed that they should keep house -together until the settling was entirely finished. Annette, to keep her -own end up, tried to make herself useful, sharing in some of the tasks -of the workshop. Thus she saw Sylvie at all hours of the day, now with -the customers, now with the workers, now alone for a private talk, and -she observed in her sister traits she had not known, or which had become -accentuated in the last two or three years. - -The coaxing Sylvie, under her charming smile, no longer concealed from -the penetrating eyes of Annette a rather cold nature which, amid all its -entanglements, knew where it was going. She had a small personnel of -working-girls whom she managed with superlative skill. With her keen -observation and her winning ways, she had chosen and drawn to herself -hearts that had no other attachments. Such, for instance, was her chief -assistant, Olympe, who was much older than she, more expert in the -craft, an excellent worker, but entirely without ideas, and unable to -take care of herself. She had come from the country and was lost in -Paris, victimized and laughed at by men, women, her employers and her -fellow-workers. She was intelligent enough to see this, but she did not -have the strength to resist it, and she had been looking for some one -who, without taking advantage of her, would make use of her work and -free her from the responsibility of managing herself. It had needed no -effort on Sylvie's part to bring her into line. Sylvie was merely -obliged to take care that there should be a good understanding among the -rival devotions that she had aroused in her personnel, making skilful -use of their antagonisms in order to stimulate their zeal and, like a -wise government, uniting competitors in the patriotism of the common -work. The pride of the little establishment and the desire to -distinguish themselves in the eyes of the young mistress delivered them -over to her cunning domination, which often made them work till they -were exhausted. She set the example, and no one complained. Her -affectionate taunts, the droll mockery at which they would burst out -laughing, would reinvigorate the weary team and make them hold out to -the end. Proud of their employer, they loved her jealously; while she, -who stimulated their enthusiasm, remained indifferent to them herself. -In the evening, after they had left, she talked about them to her sister -in a tone of cold detachment that shocked Annette. For the rest, she was -ready to do them a good turn in case of need, and she never left them in -the lurch if she found them ill or in difficulties. But whether they -were ill or not, if she did not see them she forgot them. She had no -time to think of the absent. She had no time to love very long. A -perpetual activity occupied all her moments: the care of her person, -housekeeping, meals, business, trying on dresses, gossip, love affairs, -amusements. And everything--even to the (never very long) periods of -silence, when, between the bustle of the day and her sleep at night, she -found herself alone face to face with herself--everything about her was -precise. Not a cranny for dreams. When she observed herself, it was with -the clear and curious eye that watches others and looks upon oneself as -a passer-by. A minimum of inner life: everything projected into acts and -words. The need that Annette felt for moral confession found no -consideration here. Annette was embarrassed in this perpetual midday. No -shadow. Or, if it existed--and it exists in every soul--the door was -closed tight upon it. Sylvie was not interested in what might be behind -the door. Her only concern was to administer her little domain -punctiliously, enjoying everything, her work and her pleasures, but -everything at its own time so that nothing should be lost; consequently, -she was without passions or any great excesses, for this activity, this -perpetual going from one thing to another, not only did not lend itself -to anything of the kind, but even destroyed its possibility in advance. -No danger that her lovers would make her lose her head. - -The truth was that she did not love anything very much. She loved -whole-heartedly only one soul, Annette. And how strange this was! Why in -the world did she love this big girl who had nothing, or virtually -nothing, in common with her? - -Ah, that "virtually nothing" was a great deal; who knows but that it was -the most important thing of all?--the tie of blood. This does not always -count for much between people of the same family. But when it does -count, what a mysterious strength it has! It is a voice that whispers to -us, "That other person is a part of me. Moulded in another shape, the -substance is the same. I recognize myself in a different form and -possessed by an alien soul." - -And one wants to capture oneself in this usurper double attraction, a -triple attraction: the attraction of resemblance, the attraction of -opposition, of the war of conquest, which is not the least of the three. - -What forces there were binding Annette and Sylvie together! Pride, -independence, orderliness, will, the life of the senses! Of these two -spirits, the one turned inward, the other outward--the two hemispheres -of the soul. They were constituted of almost the same elements, but -each, for deep, obscure reasons that sprang from the essence of their -personality, repressed one half, wished only to see one half, that which -emerged or that which was submerged. The uniting of the two sisters in a -common life disturbed the habitual consciousness that each had of -herself. Their mutual affection was tinged with hostility. And the -warmer the affection was, the keener was the hidden hostility, for they -realized how hopelessly unlike they were. Annette was more expert in -reading her buried thoughts, and she was also more sincere: she was able -to judge them and repress them. The time had passed when she had wished -to absorb Sylvie in her imperious love. But Sylvie still had a secret -desire to dominate her elder sister, and she was not displeased that -circumstances had given her an opportunity to affirm her superiority. It -was a sort of revenge for the inequalities of their lot during the -girlhood of the two sisters. This unconfessed feeling, together with her -real affection, gave her a sense of satisfaction which she concealed as -she saw Annette working under her direction in the shop. She would have -liked to have her on her pay roll. She put her in charge of receiving -her customers and making charcoal designs for embroidered trimmings; she -tried to persuade her that she could look forward to some important -position and even to being her partner later on in the business. - -Annette, who saw what Sylvie was driving at, had no intention of tying -herself down. She let the offer drop, and when Sylvie pressed her she -replied that she was not fitted for this work. Upon this Sylvie asked -her ironically for what work she was fitted. This was a tender point -with her. When one has never had to work for a living and necessity -drives one to do so, it is painful not to know what work one is fitted -for, not even to know whether, in spite of one's education, one is -fitted for any work. But she had to face the question. Annette did not -want to remain dependent on Sylvie. Of course Sylvie would never have -shown that she felt this dependence: she enjoyed helping her sister. But -if she was happy in spending for Annette, she knew what she was -spending; her right hand was never unaware of what her left hand gave. -Annette was still less unaware of it. She could not endure the thought -that Sylvie, as she made up her accounts, mentally wrote her down as her -debtor. . . . The devil take all money! Should it be considered between -two hearts that love each other? Annette and Sylvie did not consider it -in their hearts. But it was a consideration in their life. People do not -live by love alone. They live by money too. - - - - -XI - - -This was a truth which Annette had ignored a little too much. She was to -lose no time in learning it. - -She started out in search of a position, saying nothing about it to -Sylvie. Her first idea was to go to see the principal of the school for -young girls where she had studied. As an intelligent student who was -rich and the daughter of an influential father, she had been a favorite -of Mme. Abraham, and she felt certain of her sympathy. This remarkable -woman--one of the first to organize the teaching of women in France--had -rare qualities of energy and judgment that were complemented--or -mitigated, according to the case--by a very cold political sense which -many men might have envied. She was disinterested personally, but she -was far from being so where her school was concerned. She was a -freethinker, and, although she did not parade the fact, she was not -without a certain contemptuous anti-clericalism that could do her no -harm with her clientele, the daughters of the radical bourgeoisie and -young Jewesses. But in place of the dogmas she rejected she had -established a civic morality which, although it lacked basis and -certitude, was no less strict and commanding. (It was even more so, for -the more arbitrary a rule is the more rigid it becomes.) Annette, thanks -to her position in society, was intimate with the principal and had her -confidence. It amused her to tease the latter about her famous official -morality, and Mme. Abraham, who was sceptical by nature, found no -difficulty in smiling at the whims of this saucy young thing. She smiled -at them, yes, indeed, when they talked together behind her closed door. -But as soon as the door was open and Mme. Abraham was reinstated in her -title and her official rank, she was as firm as iron in her belief in -the Tables of the laic Law, the product of the highly reasonable -morality of a few republican pedagogues. It was enough to say that, if -her naked conscience was indifferent to conventional morality, her -clothed conscience--her usual conscience--severely blamed Annette's -behavior. For she knew about it; the adventure had gone the rounds of -society. - -But she did not yet know of her ruin. And when Annette called, she took -care not to reveal her thoughts: her first business was to find out the -reasons for this call and whether the school might reap any advantage -from it. She therefore gave her a pleasant though rather reserved -greeting. But scarcely had she learned that Annette had come to ask a -favor than she remembered the scandal and her smile froze. One can -easily accept money from a person of whom one doesn't approve, but one -cannot decently give it to such a person. It was easy for Mme. Abraham -to find compelling reasons for averting a candidacy that was so -impolitic. There was no position in the school; and, when Annette asked -for a recommendation to other institutions, Mme. Abraham did not even -take the trouble to make vague promises. She was very diplomatic when -she was negotiating with anyone who was on top of the wheel of fortune, -but she instantly ceased to be so when the wheel had flung them down. A -serious mistake in diplomacy! For sometimes those who are down to-day are -on top to-morrow, and good diplomacy looks out for the future. Mme. -Abraham considered nothing but the present. At present Annette was -drowning; it was a pity, but Mme. Abraham was not in the habit of -fishing out those who were in the water. She did not disguise her -coldness, and, when Annette failed to abandon her tone of calm -self-possession and henceforth misplaced equality, Mme. Abraham, in -order to bring her back to a more exact sense of her distance, declared -that she could not conscientiously recommend her. Annette, who was -burning with indignation, was on the point of expressing it. A flash of -anger passed over her, but it was extinguished in contempt. She was -seized by one of those rather diabolical whims of her younger days, an -itching desire to mock. She rose, saying, "Well, think of me if you -establish a course in the new morality." - -Mme. Abraham looked at her, taken aback; the impertinence was all too -evident. She replied dryly, "The old one is good enough for us." - -"But it might not be a bad thing to enlarge it a little." - -"What would you like to add to it?" - -"Nothing very much," said Annette, calmly. "Freedom and humanity." - -Mme. Abraham, hurt, said: "The right to love, no doubt?" - -"No," said Annette, "the right to have a child." - -As she went out she shrugged her shoulders at her useless bravado. . . . -Stupid! . . . What was the use of making an enemy? . . . She laughed -just the same as she thought of the vexed expression of her antagonist. -A woman cannot resist the pleasure of slighting another. Bah! The -Abraham woman would remain her enemy only until Annette had reconquered -her position. And she would reconquer it! - -Annette visited other institutions, but there were no positions. There -were none for women. The Latin democracies are only made for men; they -sometimes put feminism on their programmes, but they distrust it; they -are in no hurry to furnish arms to what still remains, at the dawn of -the twentieth century, the enslaved rival, a rival that will not long so -remain, thanks to the tenacity of the Nordic woman. Pressure will have -to be brought by the public opinion of the rest of the world to oblige -them to offer a crabbed welcome to the woman who works and wishes to -exercise her rights. - -Annette might have been admitted, however, to two or three positions if -her susceptibility had not caused her to lose them. They would have been -ready to shut their eyes to her irregular situation if she herself had -been willing to give them some specious explanation--that she was a -widow or divorced by her own choice. But when she was questioned her -absurd pride drove her to tell the facts as they were. After two or -three rebuffs, she approached no more institutions, not even the -University, although in the latter she had left sympathetic friends -behind her and would have found minds large enough to help her without -censuring her. But she was afraid of being wounded. She was still -inexperienced in the country of the poor. The hands of her pride had not -had time to become callous. - -She looked about for a chance to give private lessons. She did not wish -to seek them among the friends of her own class; she preferred to -conceal her steps. She turned to those clandestine employment--those -exploitative--agencies that still exist in Paris. She was not skilful -enough to appear well from their point of view. She had too much -disdain. They resented her fastidiousness. Instead of accepting whatever -offered, like so many unhappy souls who are fortified with very few -recommendations, who will teach anything that is asked of them at famine -prices and work from dawn till dark, she presumed to pick and choose. - -At last, through the mediation of Sylvie's customers, she found a few -foreigners. She gave lessons in conversation to some Americans who -treated her kindly and occasionally invited her to drive in their -carriages, though they offered her an absurd remuneration, never even -thinking that they ought to have paid her more. They did not hesitate to -give a hundred francs for a pair of shoes, while for an hour of French -they would pay a franc. (It was not impossible in those days to find -people who would give lessons for fifty centimes!) Annette, who did not -have the right to be exacting as yet, refused to accept this shameful -treatment. But after having sought far and wide, she could find nothing -better. The well-to-do bourgeoisie who, under the eye of public opinion, -are willing to spend whatever is demanded for the education of their -children when the teaching is public, sordidly exploit instructors in -their own households. There no one sees you. You are dealing with people -who are too humble to resist: for one who refuses there are ten who beg -you to accept them! - -Isolated, without experience, Annette was in a poor position to protect -herself. But she had the practical instinct of the Rivières and she had -her pride, and they would not accept the humiliating wages to which -others yielded. She was not of the whining sort who complain and give -in. She did not complain and she did not give in. And in the face of all -expectation this attitude was successful. The human species is cowardly; -Annette had a calm, rather haughty way of saying no that cut short all -bargaining; people did not dare to treat her as they would have treated -others, and she obtained conditions that were rather more favorable. Not -greatly so. She had to go through many weary hours to earn what she -spent every day. Her pupils were scattered in remote quarters, and this -was before the time of the autobusses and the metro in Paris. When she -came home in the evening, her feet ached and her shoes were worn out. -But she was robust, and it gave her a sense of satisfaction to -experience the life of toil for one's daily bread. To earn her bread was -a new adventure for Annette. When she was successful in one of those -little duels of the will with her exploiters, she was as well pleased -with her day as a gambler who, in the pleasure of what he has won, -forgets the insignificance of the stake. She learned to see men better. -It was not always a pleasant sight. But everything is worth learning. -She came into contact with the obscure world of toil. But her contacts -were inadequate and without depth. If wealth isolates, poverty isolates -no less. Every one is caught fast in his difficulties and his effort, -and he sees in others not so much brothers in misery as rivals whose -fortune is made at the expense of his own. - -Annette divined this feeling in the women with whom she found herself -thrown, and she understood it; for she was a privileged being among -them. If she worked in order not to be a charge upon her sister, her -sister was none the less there; she was safe from the danger of -destitution. She did not know that feverish uncertainty about to-morrow. -She had her child to enjoy; no one was trying to take him away from her. -How compare her lot with that of this woman whose story she had -learned--a teacher who had been dismissed because she, like Annette, had -had the hardihood to be a mother. It was true that she had been -tolerated at first on condition that she kept her maternity secret. -Exiled in a post of disgrace, in the depths of the country, she had had -to separate from the child of her own flesh. But she could not keep -herself from running to him when he was ill. The secret was out, and the -virtuous countryside made ferocious sport of her. The authorities of the -university of course upheld the popular decree and threw into the street -the two rebels against the code. And it was with them that Annette was -disputing their meagre livelihood. She took care not to apply for the -position which the other woman was seeking. But she was chosen. Just -because she sought positions less eagerly, because she had less need of -them. People have little respect for those who are hungry. And then the -poor souls whom she supplanted treated her as an intruder who was -robbing them. They knew they were unjust; but it is comforting to be -unjust when you are a victim of injustice. Annette became familiar with -that greatest of all wars--the war of the workers, not against nature or -circumstances, nor against the rich for taking their bread away from -them--the war of the workers against the workers who are snatching the -bread from each other, the crumbs that have fallen from the table of the -rich or from that sordid Crœsus, the State. That is the misery of -miseries, most felt by women, and especially those of to-day. For they -are still incapable of organization. They remain in the state of -primitive warfare, the individual against the individual; instead of -pooling their difficulties, they multiply them. - -Annette hardened herself, and although her heart bled her eyes were -aflame with joy. She strode on, sustained in her ungrateful work by its -novelty, the energy she had to spend--and the thought of her child, -which illumined the whole day. - - - - -XII - - -Marc spent the day in Sylvie's workshop. Aunt Victorine had flickered -out shortly after they were settled. She had not been able to survive -the ruin of the old home, the loss of the old furniture, the habits of a -peaceful half-century. Since Annette was out of the house till evening, -Sylvie took charge of the child. He was the darling of the workshop, -petted by the customers and the workers, rummaging about on all fours, -sitting under a table, collecting hooks and eyes and scraps of chiffon, -winding skeins of silk, rolling balls, stuffing himself with sweets and -smothered with kisses. He was a little boy of three or four, with golden -auburn hair like Annette's, and he had been rather pale ever since his -illness. Life for him was a perpetual spectacle. Sylvie could remember -her own first experiences when, sitting under her mother's counter, she -had listened to the customers. But the great personages, from the tops -of their stilts, have too utterly different a field of vision to know -what catches the eyes of a child. And its rosy ears. . . . There was -quite enough to keep them busy in the workshop! Every tongue was -loosened, laughing, bold, brazen. Prudery was no weakness of Sylvie and -her flock. Plenty of laughing, plenty of gossip, makes the needle fly. -No one thought of the child. Was it possible that he understood? He did -not understand (in all probability), but he grasped things, he let -nothing escape him. The child collected everything, touched everything, -tasted everything. Woe to whatever lay in his way! Sprawling under a -chair, he put in his mouth whatever fell from above, scraps of biscuit, -buttons, fruit-stones; and he also put words there. Without knowing what -they meant. Exactly, in order to find out! And he munched away and sang. - -"Little pig!" - -An apprentice would snatch from his fingers a ribbon he was sucking, or -perhaps experimentally burying in his nose. But no one took from him the -words he had swallowed. He was doing nothing with them for the present; -there was nothing he could do with them. But they were not lost. - -Routed out from under the furniture and the petticoats, where he was -absorbed in curious studies of the fidgeting feet and the imprisoned -toes curled up in their shoes, dragged back to the conventions, to his -normal position in the world of grown-ups, he would remain motionless, -soberly seated on a low stool between Sylvie's legs. Or, since his aunt -rarely kept still, between some other pair of knees. He would lean his -cheek against the warm cloth and watch, with his nose in the air and his -head thrown back, those bending faces with their puckered eyes, their -quick, shining, moving pupils, those mouths, biting the thread; he saw -the saliva and the lower lips--they seemed to be the upper ones--gnawed -by the teeth, the undersides of the nostrils, covered with little red -streaks and trembling as the words came, and the fingers that flew with -their needles. Suddenly a hand would tickle his chin: there was a -thimble at the end of it that gave him a cold feeling in his neck. Here, -as ever, nothing was lost on him; these warm and cold contacts, this -downy glow, these lights that reddened and these shadows that turned to -amber the bits of living flesh, yes, and this feminine odor. . . . He -was certainly not aware of it himself, but that multiple consciousness, -that many-faceted consciousness which is spread about the whole -periphery of a child, registered everything that passed over its little -printer's-roller. . . . These women never suspected that their images, -complete from head to foot, were being imprinted on this little -sensitive plate. But he saw them only fragmentarily: pieces were -missing, as in a puzzle in which the parts are mixed up. From this -resulted his strange, fleeting preferences, as lively as they were -varied, which seemed capricious but were really due to his deep-seated -predisposition. A clever person might have said what it was in each of -these women that attracted him. He was like a regular household pet: it -was the gentleness of the hands rather than the whole person that he -liked. And it was the totality of these sweetnesses, the home, the -workshop. He was frankly an egoist. (And rightfully: the little builder -has to assemble his ego first of all.) A sincere egoist, even in his -blandishments. For he was blandishing: he wanted to please and he -enjoyed giving pleasure, but only to those whom he had chosen. - -From the very beginning his great favorite had been Sylvie. The instinct -of the domestic animal in him had at once perceived that she was the god -of the household, the master who dispensed food and kisses and was -responsible for the tone of the day, and whom it was a good thing to -propitiate. But it was better still to be propitiated by her. And the -child had observed that this privilege had been accorded to him. It -never occurred to him that it might not be deserved. Thus he received -without surprise but with satisfaction the agreeable and flattering -homage that was rendered to him by the sovereign of the workshop. Sylvie -spoiled him, adored him, went into ecstasies over his gestures, his -steps, his words, his intelligence, his beauty, his mouth, his eyes, his -nose; she held him up to the admiration of her customers and preened -herself on his account as if he had been her own chick. - -To tell the truth, she also called him, "Little blackguard! Silly little -fool!" And sometimes she tweaked his nose, slapped him, gave him a -spanking. But from her he did not take this as an offence; although he -protested loudly, he did not even find it too disagreeable. May not any -one be struck by the hand of the queen? From any one else, from one of -the girls in the workroom, heavens above, he would never have permitted -it! Even without her sceptre, Sylvie had a charm for him. In his -feminine puzzle, made up of this group and that, she had provided him -with the greatest number of parts; he loved to press against her dress, -with his head against her stomach, to listen to her voice (he could hear -her laughing all through her body), or clamber up her hips till he had -reached the summit; and then, with his two arms knotted about her neck, -he would rub his nose, his lips and his eyes against her soft cheek, -close to her ears, among the little blonde curls that had such a nice -smell. What the eye is for the mind of grown-ups, the sense of touch is -for that of children. It is the talisman that permits one to see over -the wall and weave within oneself the dream of things one believes one -sees, the illusion of life. The child spun his web. And without knowing -what these blonde curls were, or what this cheek was, this voice, this -laugh, this Sylvie or this "I," he thought, "This is mine." - - - - -XIII - - -Annette would come home in the evening. She would be famished. All day -she had walked in a waterless desert, a world without love. All day she -had walked with her eyes turned towards the spring which, in the -evening, she would find again. She heard it rippling; in anticipation -she would dip her lips in it; a passer-by in the street might have taken -as intended for him the smile which this beautiful woman who was -hastening along addressed to the image of her child. As she approached -Sylvie's house, her steps quickened like those of a horse that scents -the oats; and when at last she entered, laughing with greedy love, no -matter how tired she was she went upstairs at a run. The door opened; -she dashed in and threw herself on the child; she caught him up in her -hands, squeezed him, devoured him furiously, his eye, his nose, under -his nose, wherever she happened to alight, whatever part she could -reach, and her mad joy expressed itself noisily. As for him, as he -played about or amused himself soberly, comfortably settled on the -padded sofa, drawing lines with a piece of chalk or mixing up threads of -various colors, he was none too pleased by this invasion. This great -rough woman who came in without any warning, seized him, pulled him -about, shouted in his ear, stifled him with kisses . . . he didn't like -it at all! To be disposed of without his permission made him indignant. -He wouldn't allow it. He was cross and he struggled; but this only made -her shake him, fondle him, laugh and cry all the more furiously. . . . -Everything about her displeased him: this lack of consideration, this -noise, this violence. . . . He quite understood that she ought to love -him, admire him and even kiss him. But she should have had better -manners! Where had she come from? Sylvie and her girls were more -ladylike. When they played with him, even when they laughed or -exclaimed, they didn't make such a racket and seize you and hug you in -this brutal way. He was astonished that Sylvie, who knew so well how to -give her subjects a dressing down, should never give this ill-bred -person a lesson in deportment, that she did not protect him from such -familiarities. On the contrary, Sylvia assumed with Annette a tone of -affectionate equality which she did not have for any one else, and she -said to Marc, "Come, be good! Kiss your mother!" - -His mother! Of course, he knew it. But that was no excuse. Yes, she too -was a domestic power. He was still too close to the warmth of the breast -not to have kept on his epicurean mouth the sugary taste of milk, not to -have kept in his birdlike body the golden shadow of the wing that -sheltered him. Even more recent were the nights of illness when the -invisible enemy had seized the throat of the fledgling and the head of -the great protectress had bent over him. Of course, of course! But now -he no longer needed this. If he preserved these memories and a hundred -others that were stored away in his granary, he had no use for them at -present. Later, perhaps, he would see. . . . Every moment now brought -him a new gift; he had enough to do to gather them all in. A child is -ungrateful by nature. _Mens momentanea_. Do you imagine he has time to -remember what was good yesterday? What is good for him is what is good -to-day. To-day Annette had made the great mistake of allowing herself to -be eclipsed by others who were more agreeable and even more serviceable -in Marc's eyes. Instead of going off, heaven knew where, and making her -unseemly appearances in the evening, why didn't she stay here like -Sylvia and the others, busy all day with Marc and paying court to him? -It was her loss. So he barely condescended to accept Annette's -effusions, responding to the rain of silly, loving questions with a -bored and distant Yes, No, Good Morning, Good Evening; and then, flying -from the downpour and wiping his cheek, he would return to his play or -to Sylvie's knees. - -Annette could not help seeing that Marc preferred Sylvie to herself. -Sylvie saw it even more clearly. They laughed about it together, and -both pretended not to attach a shadow of importance to it. But deep in -their hearts Sylvie was flattered and Annette was jealous. They took -good care not to confess this to each other. Like a good girl, Sylvie -forced the ungracious child to kiss Annette. Annette found little joy in -these forced embraces; Sylvie found more. She did not tell herself that -she was stealing from the garden of the poor, and that later she would -royally return some of the fruit. But what one keeps to oneself in order -not to load oneself with troublesome scruples, one only tastes the -better with one's closed mouth. And although she had no unkind feeling, -Sylvie found more pleasure in making the child fondle her and in -displaying her power over him in Annette's presence. Annette, pretending -to joke, would say, in a careless tone, "Out of sight, out of mind." But -her heart did not take it as a joke. There was no joke about it. Annette -had no humor save that of the intellect. Her love was as foolish as that -of a dumb creature. It was painful to be a woman among women and to be -obliged to hide one's feelings. People would only laugh at you if you -showed your poor famished heart. Annette, when she was with other -people, acted as if her love were an old story; she talked about her -day, the people she had seen, what she had learned, said and done--in -short, everything that was indifferent to her. (Oh, how indifferent!) - -But at night, by herself, in her apartment, alone with her child, she -could give free rein to the torment she felt. To her joy, too, her -torrential passion. No need to take precautions any longer. There was no -one from whom to hide herself. She had her son entirely at her mercy. -She abused her power a little; she wearied him with her wild affection. -Since here, away from Sylvie, he no longer had the upper hand, the -little politician did not show his annoyance: till morning came he would -have to humor this extravagant mother. He used strategy; he pretended to -fall asleep. He did not have to pretend very much; sleep came quickly -after his full days. All the same, it had not quite come when, like a -lamb in his mother's arms, with his eyes closed, Marc would seem to be -overwhelmed by it. Annette, interrupting her prattle, was obliged to -carry him to bed; and the little comedian, in the half-sleep down which -he let himself slip, step by step, down which he slid on the banisters -to the foot, laughed in his sleeve as he watched through his eyelashes -the credulous Mamma who was mutely adoring him. He had a sense of his -superiority, he was grateful to her for it; and sometimes in a transport -he would even throw his little arms about her neck as she knelt beside -him. By a surprise like that Annette was repaid for her troubles. But -the stingy child did not repeat it often, and Annette had to fall asleep -hungry. It was not before she had turned over in bed many times to -listen to the child's breathing as her thoughts revolved feverishly. He -had not kissed her nicely, and she said to herself, "He doesn't love -me." - -Her heart would shrink. But she would at once correct herself. "What -nonsense I'm inventing!" The idea had to be repressed at once. How could -one live with it? No, it wasn't true. . . . The good little creature she -was accusing! She hastily sought among her memories for the best she -had, for the pretty tricks of the child, for his lovable ways. At the -images she called up she would have liked to snatch him out of his bed -and kiss him. . . . But hush! She mustn't wake him up. That delicious -little breath. . . . My treasure! . . . How good it will all be later! - -For as the present was decidedly meagre, Annette made up for it by -inventing a future of motherly intimacy with her son that conformed with -her desires. She needed an idol to absorb the energies of her nature. -For some time now they had been troubling her again. - - - - -XIV - - -It was no longer a restless melancholy, that neurasthenic depression -which had preceded her child's illness and which the illness had -dissipated--those days of a life that was at a standstill, in which she -felt emptied of energy and interest: the becalmed sea before the flow of -the tide. - -This was the return of the oceanic flood. It announced itself by a -roaring of the waves, a nocturnal resurgence. For a time maternity had -satisfied the passionate elements of her nature. The material fatigue of -a working life had set up a dam against them. But, gathering in the -shadow, they beat against the rock. The soul, which as it grows climbs -up the spiral of life, found itself returning to a state bordering on -that from which it had passed, four or five years before, between the -burning summer of the hotel in the Grisons and the spring of love with -Roger Brissot. Bordering on it, but not the same. One returns on the -spiral above the past; one does not descend to it again. Annette's -nature had ripened. There was no longer in her agitation any of the -blind ingenuousness of the young girl. She was a woman; her desires were -keen and definite. She knew whither they led. And if she did not wish to -know, it was precisely because she did know. Her will had matured no -less than her flesh. Everything about her had become richer, and -everything had assumed an accent of passion. - -The reappearance of these familiar demons, these dreaded demons, was -like a midday when a storm is gathering. A heavy silence, a silence big -with the tempest to come. It followed the careless joys and the careless -sorrows of the young morning. The shadows slipped unceasingly over -Annette's face. She had become tense. When she was in company or off her -guard, when she was not distracted by the child's presence, she would -fall into a dumb silence, with a line between her brows. When she became -aware of this, she would slip noiselessly away. Any one who had been -disturbed about her would have found her in her room, setting it in -order, making her bed, turning the mattress, polishing the furniture or -the floor, using more movements than were necessary, but not succeeding -in stifling the spirit that resounded within her. She would stop in the -midst of something she was doing, upright on a chair, a bit of chiffon -in her hand, or leaning on the window-sill. Then she would forget -everything, not only the past but the present as well, the dead and the -living, even her child. She saw without seeing, she heard without -hearing, she thought without thinking. A flame that burned in empty -space. A sail in the wind of the open sea. She felt the great breath -that passed through her limbs, and the ship vibrated with all its masts. -And then from the boundless void emerged the face of the things that -surrounded her. From the court of the house over which Annette was -leaning mounted the familiar sounds; she recognized the voice of the -child talking and singing. But her reverie was not interrupted; it took -another course. It was the song of a bird on a summer afternoon. O sunny -heart, what an amount of life you still have to give! Take the world -into your open arms! Too much plunder! . . . Her consciousness relaxed -its grip; she fell back into the incandescent gulf where there was no -longer any song, any child's voice, any Annette . . . nothing but a -powerful vibration of sunlight. . . . - -Annette awakened, leaning on her elbow on the window-sill. - -But at night the tormenting dreams that had disappeared since Marc's -birth took up their abode in her. They came in groups of three or four, -ceaselessly succeeding one another. Annette rolled from one to another, -layer after layer of them. She would get up in the morning fatigued, -feverish; she had lived ten nights in one. And she did not want to -recall what she had dreamed. - -Those who saw Annette frequently had observed her anxious brow and her -absorbed eyes; they did not understand this sudden change, but they were -not disturbed by it; they attributed it to external causes, material -difficulties. For Annette these periods of anxiety were a season of deep -renewal. She could not do justice to them, for they brought with them -the weight of gestation, which was more agonizing than that of -maternity. It was a maternity indeed, that of the buried soul. The human -being is wrapped up like a seed in the depths of matter, in the amalgam -of humus and human loam where the generations have left their debris. -The labor of a great life consists in disengaging it. For this -childbirth a whole lifetime is necessary, and often the midwife is -death. - -Annette had the secret anguish of the unknown being who was to emerge -from her some day and rend her. Overcome by fits of shame, she would -shut herself up in a tumultuous retreat, face to face with the immanent -Being; and their relations were hostile. The air was charged with -electricity; its gusts rose and fell in the immobility. She realized her -danger. In vain had her consciousness left in the shadow the thing that -disturbed her. "In the shadow" meant in herself, in her own home. And to -feel her home peopled from top to bottom with beings whom she did not -know was far from reassuring. - -"All that. . . . I am all that. . . . But what does it want of me? . . . -What do I myself desire?" - -In reply, she said to herself, "You have nothing more to desire. You -possess." - -Her stiffened will turned all the violence of her love upon the child. -These continual recurrences of maternal passion were not very fortunate. -Abnormal, excessive, unhealthy--(for this passion sprang from an -impossible attempt to turn into a path that was not theirs alien and -insistent instincts)--they could only end in disappointment. She -repelled the child. Marc would not submit to being monopolized in this -way. He no longer concealed his ill-will from his mother. He thought her -a bore and he told her so in cross little monologues which happily -Annette did not hear, but which Sylvie overheard one day. She scolded -him for it, bursting out laughing at the same time. Marc, in a corner by -the door, was talking to the wall, saying, as he made little impatient -gestures, "That woman makes me tired!" - - - - -XV - - -People are always writing the history of the events of a life. They -imagine they see the life itself in them, but in reality these events -are only its outer covering. The life itself is within. The events act -upon it only in so far as it has chosen them; one might be tempted to -say it has produced them, and in many cases this is the exact truth. -Twenty events take place each month under our eyes; they do not count -for us because we have nothing to do with them. But when one of them -touches us, it is a safe wager that we have gone halfway to meet it; and -if the shock loosens a spring in us, it is because the spring is wound -up and awaiting the shock. - -Towards the end of 1904, Annette's moral tension gave way, and the -transformations it brought about in her seemed to coincide with certain -changes which, at the same moment, took place in her. - -Sylvie married. She was twenty-six years old; she had had enough of the -joys of liberty; she decided that the moment had come to enjoy those of -a home. She took her time making her choice. The stuff of which a lover -is made does not need to be lasting; it only needs to be pleasing. But a -good husband must be made of sound, durable material. Of course it was -important for Sylvie that he should be attractive too. But there are -ways and ways of being attractive. In choosing a husband one doesn't -have to lose one's head. Sylvie consulted her common sense and even her -social sense. Her business was going well. Her establishment, _Sylvie: -Robes et manteaux_, had acquired, along with a select clientele of the -fairly well-to-do bourgeoisie, a justified reputation for elegance and -style at moderate prices. She had reached a point in her business where -she could go no further alone. To advance she would be obliged to -associate other forces with her own and add to her seamstress's workshop -a tailor's shop that would enable her to enlarge the circle of her -operations. - -Without taking any one into her confidence she looked about for some one -who would fall in with her plans. She made her choice soberly; and once -it was made she decided to marry. Love would come later. It should have -its proper place: Sylvie would not marry a man whom she could not love. -But love must await its turn. Business came first. - -The name of the object of her choice was Selve (Leopold); and no sooner -had she cast her eye upon him than the little business woman decided on -the name, the beacon-light of the new establishment, _Selve et Sylvie_. -But although, for a woman, a name is never unimportant, Sylvie was not -so foolish as to be satisfied with a name alone; and Selve (Leopold) was -a good match. No longer very young, looking all of his thirty-five -years, a rather handsome man in the popular style, rather ugly, in fact, -but solidly built, with reddish blond hair and a florid complexion, he -was the head cutter at a great tailoring establishment, skilful in his -craft, earning a good income, steady, anything but dissipated. Sylvie -had taken his measure; the question was settled--in Sylvie's mind. She -had not consulted Selve about it. But the assent of the man she had -chosen was the last thing to trouble her. She took it upon herself to -win this. - -Selve himself would never have sought anything of the kind. He was -devoted to his own welfare and his own habits, a good soul, not at all -ambitious and rather egoistical, and he had made up his mind to remain -unmarried. It would not have occurred to him to quit his lucrative -position as second fiddle, which entailed no responsibility, with an -employer who knew his value. Sylvie upset his plans and his peace of -mind in the twinkling of an eye. She met him--she took pains to meet -him--at an exhibition whither she had gone, as he had, to study the -modes they were both going to contribute to launch. She was surrounded -by admirers, and without paying any attention to Selve she began to -distribute her smiles and clever repartees to three or four young men -who were very much taken with her. Suddenly, Selve, observing with some -annoyance this grace and wit that were not for him, perceived that he -had become the object of her attentions. She was speaking now only for -him; the others had ceased to count. He was all the more affected by -this instantaneous change because he attributed it to his own personal -merit. With this stroke he was caught. Farewell to his resolutions! - -A little while after this, Sylvie begged Annette to join her in the -evening after dinner at a time when there would be no one in the -workroom. - -"I've asked you to come," she said, "because I'm expecting some one." - -Annette was surprised. "What! You need me? Can't you receive him alone?" -Sylvie said soberly, "I think it would look better." - -"This attack of propriety has come rather late." - -"Better late than never," said Sylvie, diplomatically. - -"Nonsense! Try that on somebody else." - -"Just what I'm doing," said Sylvie. - -Annette shook her finger at her. "You have some one up your sleeve. -Well, who is this someone?" - -"Here he is now." - -Selve (Leopold) was ringing the bell. He seemed to be annoyed at not -finding Sylvie alone, but as a well-bred man he put a good face on the -situation. It was not easy for him to appear to advantage alone in the -presence of two young gossips who were alarming enough anyway and were -evidently in each other's confidence. He felt that these two pairs of -eyes were watching him. After a few rather heavy gallantries, of which, -as a matter of politeness, Annette had her share, he began to talk about -business, the trade, the strenuous life he led. Annette, with an air of -being interested, charitably asked him a few questions. He became more -confident and told about the difficulties of his career, his -disappointments, his success, missing no opportunity to place himself in -a good light. He seemed simple, cordial, self-sufficient; he played with -all his cards on the table. Sylvie, who was more cautious, watched his -play before playing herself. Annette, who was soon relegated to the -background, where she followed the game, was less surprised at the -competence of her sister than at the humbleness of her choice. It would -have been easy for Sylvie to make a more brilliant match; she had simply -not wished to do so. She distrusted men who were too handsome and too -clever. It goes without saying that she would not have chosen a goose or -a fool. _In medio_. . . . What she wanted was a prudent second in -command, not someone who would command her. She knew that in marriage -everybody has to give something and wants to get something: it is a -question of supply and demand. For herself she demanded the right to -remain the mistress in her own household. And what did he demand? Ah, -poor fellow, to be loved for himself, just for himself. He was not -conceited; he knew well enough that he was neither handsome nor -attractive. But it was his weakness to wish to be married for love. -Ridiculous, wasn't it? He shrugged his shoulders at the idea, for he was -no fool, this big, ingenuous creature who was familiar enough with life -and sceptical, as three out of every four Frenchmen are, where women -were concerned. But the need of the heart is so strong! That stupid -need! "Why shouldn't I be loved? I'm as good as others who are." So, by -turns, he was almost humble and almost fatuous. And always begging. This -was not very clever of him, and it was even worse that he allowed it to -be seen. For she had seen him very clearly, the sharp-eyed minx. And to -those big, blue, round, rather prominent eyes that were always asking, -"Do you love me?"--her soft eyes responded neither with a Yes nor with a -No. For uncertainty is like fuel to love. - -When the sisters found themselves alone again, Annette said to Sylvie, -"Don't play with him too much!" - -"Why not?" said Sylvie, wondering. "The stakes are worth the trouble." - -"Then it's serious?" - -"Very serious." - -"I can't imagine you married." - -"Really? I dare say you will see me so two or three times." - -"I don't like you to laugh at these things." - -"What would one laugh at, my dear Salvation Army lassie? Come, Mrs. -General Booth"--she pronounced it "Botte"--"don't knit your beautiful -brows. I'm not thinking of changing before I've even tried it. I am -marrying in the hope that it's for good. But if it doesn't last, one -must be able to resign oneself." - -"I am not anxious about you," said Annette. - -"Really? I thank you for his sake. Has he made a conquest of you?" - -"He isn't good enough for you, Sylvie. But I shouldn't want you to make -this good man suffer some day." - -Sylvie smiled and looked at her teeth in the mirror. - -"Suffer! Everybody makes the other person suffer. That's nothing. Of -course he will suffer, poor man! I shouldn't mind being in his place. -Come, don't disturb yourself about him. Do you think I don't know the -value of my Adonis? It isn't dazzling, but it amounts to a good deal. I -know what I'm about. I shan't tell him, for it doesn't do to spoil men. -It allows them to think they have rights over us. But privately I shall -not forget it. I shan't do myself the wrong of doing him a wrong. And if -I don't promise never to make him angry--which might be an excellent way -of making him a little thinner--I shan't put him on the grill unless it -is necessary. Of course, assuming that I have no reason to complain of -him. Otherwise it would serve him right to give him his due. And I pay -in cash. I am an honest business woman; I don't deceive my customers any -more than is necessary for me to live. Unless they try to get the best -of me. Then I get the best of them. Don't I!" - -"To think," Annette exclaimed, "that you never can get her to talk -seriously!" - -"Life would not be endurable," said Sylvie, "if one had to say serious -things seriously!" - -Leopold was not long in coming back again, and Sylvie did not leave him -languishing. She had quickly made the tour of the enemy's positions, -reconnoitered behind his defensive works and discovered his arms, his -baggage and his supplies before giving herself in good earnest. She had -no difficulty in leading him to adopt her own plans. Till his last day -Leopold was to preserve the illusion that it was he who had conceived -the idea of establishing the great dressmaking establishment of _Selve -et Sylvie_. - -The marriage was arranged for the middle of January, a time when work -would be rather slack. The preceding weeks were a joyous time in the -workroom. The radiant Leopold regaled the whole band, took them to the -theatre and the movies. They all had such a need for laughter! When one -of them was married, it was as if she brought marriage into the house. -And each of the others greeted the visitor with a whispered "Don't -forget! The next time it will be my turn. . . ." - -Annette was caught up in the general joy. Instead of feeling the -deprivation of her own life, she asked herself what had become of her -troubles. They slipped away as a chemise slips down one's thighs. O -youthful body, sorrow cannot cling to you! Not that this marriage gave -her any satisfaction. She had loved her sister too tenderly not to feel -rather sad to see her going still further away from her. And it was not -pleasant to see such a pretty girl giving herself to this rather vulgar -man. Annette had had other dreams for Sylvie. But with our dreams other -people have nothing to do. Their way of being happy is their own, not -ours. And they are right. - -Sylvie was satisfied. Leopold's affection, the admiration which he -showed for her, touched her vanity and gradually her heart. As she had -said to her sister, she appreciated the serious character of the man she -had chosen. He would be a steadfast companion who would not interfere -with her. She had no intention of abusing him--though one never -knew!--but she was certain that she would never have to give him any -minute account of her behavior. Leopold made no attempt to learn about -Sylvie's past; he trusted her, and this pleased her. His experience of -life had left Leopold with few illusions; above all, it had left him not -unwilling to compromise; it inclined him to assume for his own use and -accept for that of others, as a rule of conduct, the cordial egoism of -an honest, sceptical, affectionate man who was not exacting and did not -ask of others more than he himself could give. - -Sylvie, indeed, found herself much closer to him than to Annette. She -loved Annette more; but, as she said to herself, laughing, she would -never have married a masculine Annette. No, that would have turned out -badly. - -Selve inspired her with a feeling of complete security. This restful -impression dispensed her from thinking about him: she thought of the -wedding, of the dress she was making, of her future household, and she -made great plans for the business. It was perfectly satisfying. - - - - -XVI - - -The wedding took place one radiant winter day. Selve carried off all his -friends to the woods of Vincennes. They separated into jolly groups. -Annette gaily mingled with them. In former times she would have been -sensitive to the noisy and rather vulgar side of these rejoicings, but -she was not so now. She laughed with these bold young men, these hearty -girls who were giving themselves a day of merriment between their days -of toil. She took part in their sports, and she enchanted everybody with -her enthusiasm. Sylvie, who had known her as cold and contemptuous, -watched her running and amusing herself in this frank way. There she was -playing blindman's buff, with her eyes under the bandage, red with -excitement, her mouth open and laughing, her chin in the air, as if to -seize the light as it flew past, her arms stretched out before her and -her hands like wings, striding along with great steps, stumbling, -laughing her prettiest. . . . What was the beautiful, vigorous body of -this passionate blind girl going to seize? Who was going to seize her? -More than one person who was watching her might have had this thought. -But Annette seemed to be thinking only of her game. What had become of -the cares that had weighed upon her yesterday? Of her anxious, tense, -absorbed air? . . . What elasticity she had! . . . Sylvie congratulated -herself on having succeeded in distracting Annette from her troubles, -and she was overjoyed at this. But Annette knew very well that the cause -lay much further back. She was not disburdened of her cares because she -was laughing at the wedding. She was laughing at the wedding because she -was disburdened. - -What had happened? It was a strange thing and one that was not the work -of a day, although on this day it appeared so. - -One Sunday morning, a few weeks before this, she had been sitting -half-clad before her dressing-table. She took a long time over her -toilet on Sunday, for on other days she was obliged to go out so early. -She was weary with the accumulated fatigue of the week. The child, who -had just got up, had slipped out of the room to find his aunt. He was -very much interested in the wedding, and he amused Sylvie by the -reflexions which, as a man of experience, he expressed on this subject. -Leopold petted him; as a way of courting Sylvie, he courted her little -lap-dog. And Marc, flattered and proud of his importance, passed all his -time in the apartment below, remaining with his mother very reluctantly. -Annette was bitterly disheartened by this. But this morning her -weariness swept away her sadness and even mingled with it a secret -feeling that lightened it. She sighed, however, from habit. She was -feeling that mingled fatigue and enjoyment which came from knowing that -she could, thank heaven, stretch out at full length on this Sunday -without having to stir. . . . Sunday! In former days Annette had never -dreamed how precious it was. - -"How weary I am, how weary I am! How good it is not to budge! If I were -sitting in the most uncomfortable position, leaning on my elbow in some -tiresome way, I shouldn't move. I could sleep for a thousand years. -There is a charm in this that holds you. One's afraid of breaking it. -Let's not stir. How good it is!" - -She saw through the window, on the roof opposite, a stream of smoke -coming from the baker's chimney. It was carried off by the wind, in -spirals, bright and gay, stretching out, rolling, running and dancing -against the blue sky. Annette's eyes laughed and her spirit danced in -the meadows of the air--borne along in the wake of the mad arabesques. -All the weight of the earth had slipped away from her. Her spirit felt -naked in the wind and the sun. Annette sang in a low voice. . . . And -suddenly there appeared before her the enraptured eyes of a young man -who had looked at her the day before in an omnibus. She did not know -him, and in all probability she would never see him again. But this -look, which she had surprised as she suddenly turned her head--he did -not think he was being seen--confessed so naïvely how charmed he was -that ever since a fresh joy had remained in her heart. She pretended to -herself that she did not know the cause of this; but as her mirror -returned to her the image of her smile, she saw herself with the eyes of -the one who would love her some day. . . . What has become of you, my -worries? I can still hear them murmuring fitfully, far, far away. - -"Enough, enough! No more of this. One must be reasonable." - -There was nothing new in what Annette said to herself. Twenty times she -had said it. But although she did as she said, she expected nothing from -it. Success does not always depend on being reasonable. Reason is a good -counsellor, but counsellors do not guarantee payment. And the heart is -only convinced by the reasons of the heart. - -She had no lack of these now. Annette was willing to see how absurd were -the demands made by her maternal love. But if she was ready to do this, -it was because other stifled aspirations had risen to the surface. She -could no longer deny them; she no longer wished to do so. And once she -had given them this tacit acquiescence, Annette felt liberated. The -voice of her reawakened youth said to her, "Nothing is lost. You still -have the right to be happy. Your life is just beginning." - -The world revived. Everything had a savor again. Even on dull days she -had her luminous moments of escape. Annette formed no plans for the -future. She abandoned herself to the happiness, whatever it might be, of -a future that she had recaptured. Yes, yes, she was young, young as the -young year. . . . A whole life before her, . . . There would never be -enough of it. - - - - -XVII - - -One of those gay, precocious months of February that have so much charm -in Paris. Spring is not yet in the sky or in the heart, but everything -is pure, pure light, the limpid joy of a child that has awakened. The -beautiful dawn of the year is beginning, and before the birds have -reappeared one hears them coming. As from the summit of a tower lost in -the clear sky, one sees them, clouds of wings, swarms of swallows. They -are coming, they are crossing the seas. And already some of them are -singing in my heart. - -Like every healthy being, Annette loved all the seasons. In adapting -herself to them, she shared in their secret energies. Those of the -springtime exalted her. - -She went along, happy to be walking, happy to be working, carrying home -with her a wholesome fatigue and a hearty appetite. She was interested -in everything, filled with a new curiosity about the things of the mind -which for four years she had abandoned, about books, music; and -sometimes in the evening, although she was half dead, she would go out -and run to the other end of Paris to use a ticket to some concert. -Sylvie envied her; she herself was in the early stages of pregnancy, and -it was far from pleasant. - -In her evening walks, Annette was followed more than once. She did not -notice this: absent-minded, dreaming, amused, she would suddenly stop in -the midst of her soliloquy with the feeling that she was dragging -something along at her heels. She would wake up and look curiously at -the thing that was whispering to her, shrug her shoulders or make a face -and start off briskly saying, "What an old idiot!" - -The idiot was often young, and Annette thought, "In a dozen years Marc -may be like this." - -She stopped indignantly. The false Marc received the wrath of the eyes -which she turned upon the other, and he did not persist. The eyes began -to laugh. The idea of seeing Marc in such a situation, a big handsome -boy, amused her in spite of everything. But her maternal pride was hurt. -She scolded herself for the observation she had made. Or rather she -scolded Marc. - -"Young scamp!" she muttered. "When I get home I'll pull his ears." (She -did pull them.) - -These little adventures entertained her. At first, that is. But when -they kept on. . . . - -"Oh, what a pest! This is tiresome. Am I never to be allowed to walk in -peace any more? Because you look to the right, to the left, in the -simplest, most harmless way, because you laugh as you walk along, people -have to suspect you are thinking of love! I know love, I have seen -enough of it. The fools who imagine one can't get along without them! It -never occurs to them that one can be happy without them, just because -it's a fine day and one is young and has the little one needs. Let them -think what they like! Am I thinking of them? Of them! Haven't they ever -looked at themselves?" - -She herself looked at them; and as she was in a state of grace (that is, -of gay freedom) she certainly did not idealize them. Far from it. She -asked herself how one could possibly fall in love with a man. Man was -certainly not a beautiful animal. One would have to have lost one's head -to find him attractive. And the daughter of Rivière, who was a good -Frenchwoman, of the strong classical type, a reader of Rabelais and -Molière, repeated to herself Dorine's remark to Tartuffe. - -She made fun of love. (Ah, how she deceived herself!) She defied it, and -she carried it in her heart. Sly and apparently asleep, it was awaiting -its hour. These little skirmishes were preparations for the real attack. -The enemy was approaching. The friend. . . . - - -Who could have suspected him? Anyone else, perhaps. But this man--what -an idea! - -Julien Dumont was just about the age of Annette, between twenty-nine and -thirty years old. Of middling height, with a slight stoop, a rather sad -face and one that would have been unattractive without the fine, brown, -gentle, serious eyes that were humbly caressing when one overcame their -shyness, a bony forehead, with a depression in the middle, a big nose, -pronounced cheek-bones, a short black beard, an affectionate mouth that -was concealed under a very long moustache--it was Julien's almost -invariable habit to conceal whatever was least ugly about him--the dull, -old-ivory complexion of a man who has been nourished more by books than -by sunlight. A face that lacked neither intelligence nor goodness, but -was rather depressed and languid, a face that life and the passions had -not yet marked. In his whole appearance there was something walled-in, -something despondent. - -He was more ingenuous and inexperienced than Annette, who was still a -good deal so herself. For, in spite of her brief experience, an -experience that had been more violent than extensive, she did not know -very much about the world of love. It is true that the intuition she -owed to her father and her talks with Sylvie, which sometimes quite -equalled those of the Queen of Navarre, had not left her ignorant of -anything. But the lesson is badly learned which the heart has not -studied at its own expense. Words are not of the same stuff as reality. -And one sometimes fails to recognize what one has read about when one -meets it in life. Annette, who had been well taught, had almost -everything to learn. Julien had to learn everything. - -He had lived without love. We hesitate in France to speak of "innocents" -of this kind: they provoke the easy pleasantries of an intelligent race -that does not vary to any great extent in the forms of its wit. There -are many of these innocents. Whether it is the result of religious -scruples, or moral puritanism, or a deep-seated and sometimes -unwholesome timidity, or (and this is most frequently the case) an -overwhelming burden of work that absorbs their years of youth, a life of -poverty, toil, a repugnance for vulgar love affairs, a respect for the -future, for the one who is coming (who is not coming)--in every case, no -doubt, a certain cold-bloodedness lies at the bottom of their attitude. -The Nordic heart is slow to awaken, though this may mean, not that the -passions are going to lack force in the future, but merely that they are -gathering and being held in reserve. There are many of these innocents, -and the happy young people about them pay no attention to them. -Innocents are left empty-handed; they are left out of everything. Julien -knew scarcely anything about life except through his intelligence. - -The child of a bourgeois family, poor, laborious, which included only -his two parents, the father an obscure professor who had worked himself -to death, the mother devoted to her son, who returned the devotion, -deeply religious, a practising Catholic, a believer, with liberal ideas, -an unbroken, monotonous life of labor, coldly illumined by the severe -joy of conscience and habit, with no interest in politics, a distaste -for every sort of public activity, a profound love of the hidden, inner, -domestic life, he was a truly honest, modest soul, with a sense of the -value of the strong, humble virtues. And deep down in his heart was a -flower of poetry. - -He was an assistant teacher of science at a lycée. He had known Annette -years before at the University, when they were twenty. From the very -first he had been attracted by her. But Annette, who was rich at that -time, popular, radiant with youth and happy egoism, carelessly distant, -intimidated Julien. Her bolder companions assumed with her the place -that he would have liked to take. He envied them, but he did not try to -rival them; he considered himself inferior, ugly, awkward, ill-dressed; -he was unable to express himself and gave a false idea of his -intelligence and his sincerity. The sense of his physical uncouthness -paralysed him all the more because he was susceptible to beauty, and -Annette inspired in him an unexpressed emotion. For he thought her -beautiful; unlike his companions who paid court to her, he did not have -a sufficiently free mind to observe cavalierly the imperfections that -accompanied her attractions, the strongly marked eyebrows, the prominent -eyes, the short nose. He did not see these details. But he alone of all -these young men grasped the harmony of this living form, he alone -understood it; for, although most people stop at the mere external -pattern, every form expresses an inner meaning. Julien did not separate -in his own mind Annette's eyes, her forehead, her heavy eyebrows from -her energy of character and vigorous mentality. He saw her from a -distance, simply, summarily; but he saw her truly, more truly, at this -first glance, than when he came nearer and tried to know her better. He -was one of those far-sighted spirits that are embarrassed at close -range. Sometimes they have genius and stumble at every step. - -Julien and Annette happened to meet again one morning in the great -windowed hall on the first floor of the Library of Sainte-Geneviève. It -was nearly ten years since they had seen each other, and Julien had -prudently avoided thinking of the image that rose before him to-day. He -lifted his eyes from his book. On the other side of the table, a few -steps away, he caught sight of her reading. Over her beautiful auburn -hair was a fur toque; her cloak was thrown back from her shoulders. (It -was still winter, though Easter was approaching; and the hall, into -which the icy air of the square filtered through the great windows, was -never warm enough. Julien had kept his own coat-collar turned up, but -she, with her neck exposed, did not feel the cold.) With one elbow on -the table and her chin resting on the back of her hand, she had the -familiar attitude which he had seen so long ago, her brow bending -forward, her blond eyebrows knit, and the eyes running down the page, -while she nibbled the end of her pencil. He felt again as he had felt at -twenty. But it did not occur to him to get up and speak to her. - -In spite of the ardor with which she had applied herself to reading, as -she applied herself to everything, Annette's mind was still pursuing -more than one single thought. The ideas she had come to find in a book, -and that really attracted her, rarely presented themselves without a -procession of images which had very little in common among themselves. -She drove them away; but, as moment followed moment, the indiscreet -images came back and knocked at the door. The most intellectual woman -never completely forgets herself in what she is reading; the current -within her is too strong. Annette interrupted her reading to open the -flood-gate for a moment. - -As she thus stopped, casting about her a rather troubled glance, her eye -encountered that of Julien: it was fixed upon her. The image of Julien -seemed to her a part of what was passing through her mind. Then, -suddenly awakening--as when, in the morning, on her pillow, she found -herself all at once in the midst of life--she rose gaily and stretched -out her hand to him across the table. - -Julien, who was embarrassed, awkwardly went over and sat down beside -her. They began to talk. Julien said little. He was stunned by this -unexpected pleasure. Annette took everything into her own hands. She was -delighted; a happy past reappeared before her. Julien played a very -minor part in this: he was a mere link in the chain, and as the figures -of the dance unfolded Julien was soon far away. But he thought he still -saw himself in Annette's laughing eyes, and in his confusion he scarcely -knew what he was saying to her in reply. He did his best (the clumsy -soul!) to conceal the admiration she aroused in him. She still seemed -beautiful to him, more beautiful than ever, but closer, more human, -somehow new. . . . In what way? He knew nothing about her; the last -thing he had heard was the death of her father six years before. He -lived a solitary life; the gossip of Paris never reached him. . . . He -asked if Annette was still living in the Boulogne house. - -"What, don't you know? It's a long time since I moved away from there. -Yes, they put me out of it." - -He did not understand. She hastily explained, with an air of gaiety, -that she had been ruined by her own fault, her indifference to business. - -"It was a very good thing!" she added. - -And she spoke of other matters. Not a word about her life. She had no -desire to conceal it, but it was no concern of others. If Julien had -insisted, asked some question, she would have replied with the exact -truth. But he asked nothing, he would not have dared. His mind was lost -in this one thought: she was poor, poor like himself. Already the fiery -wind of hope had entered him. - -To disguise his feeling he leaned, with a gruff camaraderie, over the -pamphlet she had just laid down. - -"What are you reading here?" - -He turned the leaves. A scientific review. There was a file of them. - -"Yes," said Annette, "I am trying to catch up with things. It's not -easy. I have lost ground during these five years; I have to earn my -living, giving lessons, and I haven't the time. I am taking advantage of -Easter. No more lessons. I'm resting. I am trying to make up for lost -time. I am taking double doses, you see. [She pointed to the open -reviews that surrounded her.] I should like to swallow them all. But -it's too much. I can't manage it; I have to learn everything all over -again. Such an immense number of things have happened since I have been -out of the running; they allude to works that I don't know. . . . -Heavens, how quickly things move! But I shall catch up with them again! -I swear I shan't be left behind on the road like a cripple. There are -fine things to be seen out there. I want to see them." - -Julien drank in her words. Of all she was saying what remained in his -mind was this: she was earning her living under difficulties, and she -was laughing. She rose in his admiration to a height which the old -Annette had never attained. And she dragged him along with her. For this -joy, which he did not possess, she brought to him. - -They went out together. Julien was proud to find himself in the company -of this beautiful woman; he could not get over his surprise that she -should have remembered him so well. In the old days she had hardly -seemed to notice that he existed. And here she was recalling to him -little forgotten events in which he was concerned. She asked about -Julien's mother. He was so touched that his embarrassment vanished; -haltingly, he began to tell her about himself; he was tongue-tied. -Annette listened to him with gentle irony; she would have liked to -prompt him. He was still at the beginning and his assurance was coming -back when she held out her hand to bid him goodbye. He had just time to -ask her if she was going to be at the library again, and he was -overjoyed to hear her say, "to-morrow." - -Julien went home in utter confusion. He was ashamed of himself, but -to-morrow he would make up for it. To-day he only wanted to think of the -miracle of this friendship. On her side, Annette, who was submerged in -Sylvie's environment, was pleased to have found again a comrade of her -intellectual years. Not that he was very enlivening--hardly that--but he -was a serious, sympathetic, honest boy. . . . What an icicle! - -She had no reason the next day to change her opinion. Julien only thawed -out when he was alone at home. The moment he saw Annette again, the ice -at once returned. He was filled with consternation. He had prepared many -things to say, prepared a conversation as he would have prepared a -lecture, but under Annette's eyes nothing remained of it all. There was -only a tasteless extract left of the recitation that he had warmed up in -himself so many times. Even he was bored as he heard himself reeling it -off. He only recovered his equilibrium when they began to discuss -science and he himself was not in question. On that ground he was -precise and clear and even became quite lively. Annette could have asked -nothing more. Eager to learn, she pressed him with questions that -interested Julien by their intelligence; she was so quick in imagining, -though she often guessed wrong, and at a word she would turn up at the -exact point whither he wished to lead her. He liked this attentive face, -these eyes that plunged into his to reach his thought more quickly, and -then suddenly lighted up. She had understood! The joy of thought shared -in common, and this invisible sun and the immense perspective illumined -by its light, the joy of travelling together towards discovery by new -roads where he was her guide! It was delicious to talk in this way, in -the peaceful seclusion of this hall of books, this church of the mind. - -Delicious for him, but not for those who were near them. For he talked -too loud: he had forgotten that other people existed. Annette smilingly -told him that he must be silent and rose to go out. He followed her. But -once in the street again, with the table and the books no longer before -them, he became the same impotent soul whom Annette had seen the day -before. She tried to make him talk of himself, but her labor was lost. -And he could not make up his mind to leave her; he wanted to take her -back to the door of her house. He was stiff, nervous, abrupt from -embarrassment--at moments, unintentionally, even rather impolite. . . . -He was a fearful bore! Annette, slightly irritated, thought, "How the -devil can I get rid of him?" - -Julien perceived the mocking curve in this mouth that said nothing. He -stopped suddenly and remarked, in a tone of distress, "O forgive me, I'm -boring you. . . . Yes, I know it, I know it! I am such a bore! I don't -know how to talk. I am not used to it. I live alone. My mother is good, -very good, but I can't tell her about my thoughts. Many of them would -upset her; she wouldn't understand them. And I have never known anybody -who was interested in them. I don't expect it. You have been good to -listen to me so indulgently. I have let myself go on because I wanted to -tell you. . . . But it isn't possible. One can't tell things, one should -keep them to oneself. It isn't interesting, it isn't manly. Live and be -silent. I ask your pardon for having bored you." - -Annette was touched. There was real feeling in these words. This mixture -of modesty and sad pride struck her; she felt the disappointment and the -wounded affection under the shell of coldness. In one of those bursts of -emotion which she could not resist, she was seized with a kindly pity -for Julien. She said warmly, "No, no, don't regret anything. I thank -you. It was quite right of you to talk"--she corrected herself with a -touch of mockery that had no sharpness in it this time--"to try to talk. -Yes, it isn't easy. You are not used to it. . . . Well, I'm glad you are -not used to it. There are plenty of others who are! But there is nothing -to prevent me from hoping that I shall make you get used to it. Are you -willing? Since you have no one with whom you can talk?" - -Julien was too much moved to reply, but his look expressed a gratitude -that was still shy. Although it was past the hour when she should have -been at home, Annette retraced her steps so that they might still have a -few minutes together; and she talked to him with a kind, motherly -camaraderie, in a simple, cordial tone that was like a cool hand laid on -his aching forehead. Yes, he had been hurt, this big boy; with his moody -air he needed to be handled very gently. He was coming back to life now. -But she had to go in. . . . Annette suggested seeing him again from time -to time. And they confessed that, as for the work they had done in the -library, they might have done it just as well in the Luxembourg Gardens, -or . . . - -"Or . . . why not at my house?" - -And Annette, inviting him for some Sunday soon, vanished without waiting -for a reply. - -Ah, how well he might have talked, now that she was no longer there! He -went over the whole scene; he felt how kind Annette was. And since this -man, who was so well balanced in his intellectual life, was unable to -preserve any measure in the things of the heart, he slipped without -transition from the thought that his feeling was destined to remain -unreturned to the thought that perhaps . . . - - - - -XVIII - - -Annette had not the least suspicion of what was taking place in Julien. -The unengaging appearance of her new companion seemed a guarantee -against love, and she thought that in some comic fashion it would also -guarantee Julien. She respected him. She pitied him. Pitied, he became -sympathetic. It was pleasant to tell herself that she could do him good; -and he became more sympathetic to her. But it would never have occurred -to her to be on her guard against him, still less against herself. - -She had forgotten her invitation when, on the following Sunday, he came -to recall it to her; and the joyous surprise with which she greeted him -was not assumed. But Julien who, for a week, had been thinking of -nothing but this moment, did not see the surprise and saw only the joy. -And his own increased. The weather was very bad. Annette had not thought -of going out this afternoon. As she was not expecting anybody; she was -in négligé, and so was the apartment. The baby had been playing there. -It is useless to have, as Annette had, a love of order; children oblige -one to give it up, along with so many fine plans that one has formed -without considering them. But Julien, referring everything to himself, -saw in this disorder no artistic effect, but a sign of some intimacy -that Annette wished to accord him. He came in with a beating heart, but -with his mind made up to appear this time in an advantageous light; he -assumed an air of assurance. It was not becoming to him, and Annette, -who was annoyed at being surprised in this confusion, was angry because -the intruder was so unceremonious. She at once became cold, and in an -instant Julien's pride was broken. So they remained, each as stiff as -the other, the one not daring to utter another word, the other waiting -with an air of malicious _hauteur_. - -"If you imagine, my dear boy, that I am going to help you to-day!" - -And then she saw the ridiculous side of the situation. She saw with the -corner of her eye the piteous look of the conqueror, and she laughed out -loud. Suddenly relaxed, she resumed the comradely tone. Julien did not -understand it at all: disconcerted but relieved, he too became natural -again, and at last a friendly conversation sprang up between them. - -Annette told him about her working life, and they confessed to one -another that they were not made for their occupations. Julien was -passionately interested in the science which he taught, but . . . - -"They can't follow me! They look at me with their dull eyes blinking -with sleep; there are hardly two or three who have a glimmer of -understanding; the rest are a heavy mass of boredom. If you sweat blood -and water, you can sometimes (not always) stir it for a moment, but it -always falls back into the pond. Try to fish it out again! It's work for -a well-digger. But it isn't their fault, the unhappy brats. They are -just like ourselves; they are victims of the democratic mania according -to which all minds absorb equally the same sum of knowledge--before the -normal age when they might begin to understand! Then come the -examinations, the agricultural matches, when they weigh these products -of ours who are crammed with a mixture of lame words and formless -notions. Most of these they hastily disgorge immediately afterwards, and -they are disgusted with learning for the rest of their lives." - -"Now I," said Annette, laughing, "like children very much, yes, even the -most unattractive ones. I am not indifferent to any of them. I should -like to have them all, I should like to hug them all. But one has to -limit oneself. Isn't that so? It's enough to have one. . . ." - -(She pointed to the disorderly room, but he did not understand and -smiled stupidly.) - -"It's a pity! When I see one who pleases me, I would like to steal him. -And they all give me pleasure. There is something fresh, an infinite -hope, even in the ugliest. . . . But what can I do with them? And what -can they do with me? I see so little of them. They are only in my hands -for an hour. And then I run to the others. And my little ones also run -from hand to hand. What one hand has done the other undoes. Nothing -sticks. These little formless souls, these little soulless forms, who -dance the Boston and the two-step. We run about. Everyone runs about. -This life is a race-course. No one ever stops. People die, they join the -dead. Ah, what unhappy souls, never granting themselves a day to collect -their thoughts! And they don't grant us one either, we who would so like -to have it!" - -Julien understood her. He had no need to learn the value of a retreat, -the horror of the tumultuous world. And their understanding increased -when Annette said that fortunately, in the midst of the flood, there -were still a few islets where one could take refuge, the beautiful books -of the poets and especially music. The poets had little attraction for -Julien; their language was beyond him. He had the strange distrust of it -which is common in minds that love thought and often have their own -poetry, but do not perceive the deep vibrations of the music of words. -The other music, the language of sounds, is more accessible to them. -Julien loved it. Unfortunately, he lacked the time and the means to go -and hear it. - -"I lack them too," said Annette. "But I go just the same." - -Julien did not have this vitality. After his working day he stayed -quietly at home. He did not know how to amuse himself. He saw a piano in -the room. - -"Do you play?" - -"Ah, it isn't easy!" said Annette, laughing. "_He_ doesn't allow it." - -Julien, vaguely troubled, asked in surprise who could prevent her in -this way. Annette, with her ear alert, listened to the little steps that -were tapping along as they climbed the stairs. She ran and opened the -door. "See, there's the monster!" - -She brought Marc in. He had returned from his aunt's. - -Julien did not yet understand. - -"My little boy . . . Marc, will you say good-afternoon?" - -Julien was astounded. It had not even occurred to Annette that he would -be surprised. She went on gaily, holding Marc, who tried to escape from -her, "You see, I haven't lost my time in spite of all." - -Julien did not have the wit to reply. His attention was occupied in -concealing his confusion. He attempted a rather foolish smile. Marc had -succeeded in slipping from his mother's hands, without having said -good-afternoon. (He thought this ceremony ridiculous, and he made off, -leaving his mother talking, "talking and saying nothing," well knowing -that the instant after she would have forgotten it in something else. -There was no continuity in women.) Four steps away from Julien, in the -folds of a curtain which he twisted in his embrace, Marc looked the -stranger up and down with severe eyes; and in his childish way (which -was fairly accurate) he had quickly sized up the situation. Decision -without appeal: he did not like Julien. The question was settled. - -Julien, whose embarrassment was increased by this look from the child, -tried to resume the thread of the conversation while following the -thread of his own thoughts. But he only succeeded in becoming more -confused. He reassured himself, however. Feebly. Annette's confident -manner made it impossible for him to suspect that she was unmarried: -that was out of the question. But where was the husband? Alive or dead? -Annette was not in mourning. No, he was not reassured. What had become -of this man? Julien did not dare to ask directly. After many detours, he -finally took a chance, imagining he was very clever, and carelessly -remarked, "Have you been alone very long?" - -"I am not alone," said Annette. And she pointed to her child. - -He learned nothing more. But since she thus admitted by implication that -she was alone (with the child) and that she took it gaily, it must be -because her mourning was far, very far, behind her, and she no longer -thought of it. Julien's interested logic ended victoriously, "Monsieur -Malbrough is dead." - -Farewell to the husband! He was no longer disturbing. Julien threw one -more shovelful of earth on him, and then, turning to Marc, gave the -child a crooked smile. Marc was becoming sympathetic to him. - -But he had not become so to Marc. He was more familiar with the -constitution of the atomic bodies than with that of a child's mind. Marc -fully realized that this demonstration of good nature was not natural, -and the result was that he turned his back, grumbling, "I forbid him to -laugh at me." - -Annette, amused by Julien's useless efforts to win over the child, -thought she ought to make up for Marc's ungracious greeting. She -questioned Julien about his solitary life with an interest that wandered -a little at first, but soon ceased to do so. Julien, who was always more -sure of himself when he was sitting in the half-light of a room, talked -about himself this time quite frankly. He was simple; he never, or -hardly ever, posed, in spite of his desire to please. In his sincerity -he revealed a candour that one seldom meets in Paris in a man of his -age. When he touched upon subjects that were dear to him, he had a -delicacy that veiled a restrained emotion. In these moments of abandon -when, in the kindly silence of the encouraging Annette, his true inner -nature seemed to blossom, a gleam of moral beauty lighted up his face. -Annette looked at him attentively, and what she felt for him was no -longer merely a friendly indifference. - -After this they saw each other regularly on Sundays and a little oftener -during the week, when they had a free moment. Julien used as a pretext -the books which he lent her; it was quite necessary to accompany them -with explanations so that Annette should have less difficulty in -understanding them. He brought Marc some rather expensive but badly -chosen presents for which the little enemy was by no means grateful to -him: he thought them childish and beneath his dignity. But nothing could -shake Julien's good will, firmly resolved as he was not to see anything -that would disturb him. Solitary spirits who distrust the world lose all -discernment, all desire to be discerning, the moment they abandon their -distrust in favor of some chosen soul: they are liberated. Julien's -mind, ingenious in deceiving itself, arranged to its satisfaction the -memories it brought back from each of its visits: everything that -Annette had said and everything that surrounded her. (Without being -conscious of it, he indirectly glorified himself.) Annette's -inattentiveness, her wandering replies, even the bored silences which he -sometimes caused her, all rendered her more beautiful and more touching -to him. And as, each time, he still discovered some new little trait, -which did not accord with the portrait he had made, he kept remaking the -portrait, he made it over ten times; and although the portrait no longer -resembled what it had been at the beginning, Julien never admitted that -there had been a change in its essential constancy. He was ready to -alter his ideal of love as many times as the beloved object altered. - -Annette had become aware of his love for her. She was amused by it at -first, then touched, then grateful, a little, a good deal, in spite of -everything. ("The least handsome boy in the world can only give what he -has. Thank you, my good Julien.") Then she was a little troubled. She -told herself frankly that she should not allow him to start down that -slope. But it gave the boy so much happiness, and certainly it was not -displeasing to her. Annette was susceptible to affection; susceptible -also to gentle attentions, the flattery of tenderness. Too much so, -perhaps. She confessed it. Love, the admiration she read in his eyes were -for her a caress that she could not but wish to have repeated. . . . Yes, -she admitted it: perhaps it was not quite right, but it was so -natural! She would have to make some little effort to deprive herself of -it. She did so, but she had no luck; everything she said to push Julien -away from her (did she really say everything?) attracted him all the -more. It was a fatality! One has to resign oneself to a fatality. She -laughed at herself, while Julien, troubled, wondered if she was not -laughing at him. - -"Hypocrite, hypocrite! Haven't you any shame?" - -She had no shame. Can one resist pleasing a heart that has surrendered -itself into one's hands? It brightens one's days. And what harm does it -do? What is the danger? As long as one is calm and master of oneself and -desires only what is good, the good of the other person! - -She did not know that one of the insidious paths through which love -finds its way is the fond vanity of believing that one is -necessary--that feeling which is so strong in the heart of a true woman: -it satisfies her double need of doing good, which she confesses, and of -pride, which she does not confess. It is so strong that when she has a -well-developed soul she often prefers the man for whom she cares less, -but whom she can protect, to the man for whom she cares more, but who -can get along without her. Is not this the essence of maternity? Suppose -the big boy were to remain the little chick as long as he lived! The -woman with a mother's heart, like Annette, finds it easy to attribute to -a man whose love appeals to her a charm he does not possess. Her -instinct disposes her to observe only his good qualities. Julien had -plenty of these. Annette rejoiced to see his timidity vanishing and his -real nature, which had been repressed, expanding in the daylight with -the soft happiness of the convalescent. She said to herself that -hitherto no one had understood this man, not even the mother of whom he -was always talking and of whom she was beginning to be jealous. As for -poor Julien, he did not know himself. . . . Who would have suspected -that under this rough shell there was a tender, delicate soul? . . . -(She was exaggerating.) . . . He needed confidence and he had lacked it: -confidence in others, confidence in himself. To believe in himself he -needed another believer. Well, she believed! She believed in Julien, for -Julien's sake, so much that she ended by believing in him also for her -own. . . . He blossomed under her eye as a plant in the sunlight. And it -is good to be the sun for somebody else. "Open, my heart!" Was it to -Julien's heart or her own that she was speaking? Already she had ceased -to know. For she too was blossoming as a result of the good she was -doing. An abundant nature dies if it cannot nourish others from itself. -"To give myself!" - -Annette gave too much. She was irresistible. Julien no longer concealed -his passion. And Annette--a little late--recognized that she was in -danger. - -When she saw love rising within her, she threw up a feeble defence; she -tried not to take Julien's feelings seriously. But she did not believe -herself, and all she did was to make Julien more importunate. He became -pathetic. - -Then she was seized with fear. She besought him not to love her, to let -them remain good friends. - -"Why?" he asked. "Why?" - -She did not want to say. She had an instinctive fear of love; she -remembered what she had suffered through it, and an intuition warned her -of what she would have to suffer again. She summoned it and she drove it -away from her; she desired it and she fled from it. Julien's entreaties -she resisted sincerely, and in the bottom of her heart she prayed that -her adversary might conquer her; resistance. - -The combat would have dragged on if a certain event had not hastened the -issue. - - - - -XIX - - -With her sister's husband Annette was on terms of the frankest -friendship. This good soul, for all his slight vulgarity, lacked neither -heart nor integrity. Annette respected him, and Leopold treated her with -a rather ceremonious consideration. Ever since their first meetings he -had gathered that she belonged to a different species from his and -Sylvie's; she intimidated him. He was all the more grateful for the -kindness she showed him. At the time when he was paying court to Sylvie, -she had been his ally; more than once she had come to his aid when he -was exposed to the ridicule of his fiancée, who was too sure of her -power not to abuse it. Later she had even discreetly interposed in -misunderstandings in the household, or when Sylvie yielded to sudden -whims, crotchets and deviltries, now and then, escaping from her own -vexations by vexing her husband. Leopold, who did not understand such -things, would come and tell his troubles to Annette, who undertook to -bring Sylvie back to reason. He had even gone so far as to confide to -his sister-in-law more than one matter which he had not mentioned to his -wife. Sylvie was not unaware of this, and she teased Annette, who took -it gaily. Everything was natural and frank among the three. Leopold had -never complained of the place held in his home by his wife's sister and -the little boy, though they were often rather in the way; he thought, in -fact, that Sylvie did not do enough to help Annette, whose courage he -admired; and he spoiled the child. Annette, who knew through Sylvie what -Leopold thought, was grateful to him. - -The period of Sylvie's pregnancy was not, for those about her, -especially the husband, a happy time. Frequent discords drove Leopold -and his consort apart. Not that Sylvie meant to get along without him. -She thought very little about her maternity and was unwilling to make -any change in her manner of living. But he did think about it. Those -long months of gestation were far from being for her what they had been -for Annette, an endless dream of languid happiness that was finished too -soon. Sylvie was not made to brood on dreams. She was impatient and had -no intention of giving up one of her duties, one of her rights or one of -her pleasures: she overtaxed herself. Her health was affected by her -nervous state, and her character did not gain by it. When one is -tormented, one is glad to torment others. Sylvie, who was uncomfortable, -was indignant because her husband was not; and she undertook to make him -so. She harassed him with her teasing, malicious, perpetually changing -moods. She was even (unexpectedly enough) jealously amorous, though this -did not prevent her from abusing him. There were days when he did not -know which way to turn. - -Annette was at hand to receive his lamentations. He would climb up to -her floor, complaining; she would listen to him patiently, and she found -a way to make him laugh at his little misfortunes. These meetings, as -they went on, established between them a sort of complicity, for they -had so many feelings in common. And sometimes, in Sylvie's presence, -they would exchange a malicious glance. Perfectly honest, both of them, -they took no precautions and abandoned themselves to a familiarity -which, if it was innocent, was not entirely harmless. Annette did not -dream that there was any risk, and these friendly coquetries amused her. -Leopold was captivated by them; he asked for nothing better. He had been -attracted for a long time by the radiant force of joy that issued from -her. Just at that moment Annette was discovering Julien's love, and it -troubled her deliciously. The rest of the world was all a haze. When she -had just seen Julien, and Leopold was talking to her, she listened to -Leopold and replied to him, but it was to Julien that she was smiling. -Leopold had no means of guessing this. - -He knew what he wanted. He resisted like a decent fellow. But a decent -fellow is a man. He should not play with fire. - -One Sunday in May the four of them, Sylvie, Annette, Leopold and little -Marc, went for a walk in the direction of Sceaux. After an hour of -strolling, Sylvie, who was a little tired, sat down at the foot of a -slope and said, "Well, young people, climb it if you want to! You will -find us still here." - -She remained behind with the child. Annette and Leopold went gaily on. -Annette was animated, joyous, the best of company. Leopold, with his -jolly talk, eased the moral tension in which Julien's love and his -intellectual conversation held her. The path wound between the long wall -of a great estate and a rise of ground covered with flowering bushes. -Through the holes in the hedges they saw, as they climbed, the sloping -orchards with their white and pink tufts. - -A fantastic sky, with the busy clouds racing over its delicate blue. The -laughing wind, like a young dog, bit them by fits and starts. Annette -was walking ahead, picking flowers, singing. Leopold was following her; -he watched her bending over, watched her robust frame under the tightly -fitting dress, her bare hands, her bare neck, reddened by the lash of -the wind, and amid the foaming hair the red shell of her ear, the tip of -which looked like a drop of blood. The slope rose again to the right, -and the road formed a passage in which the rushing wind streamed down -upon them. Annette, without turning, asked her companion a question. He -did not reply. She went on, bending over, picking flowers and talking. -And as she joked with Leopold, who was silent, it suddenly occurred to -her that there was something dangerous in this silence. She let her -flowers fall. She straightened herself, but she did not have time to -turn when . . . she almost fell. He had clasped her in his arms. She had -been brutally seized, and she felt on her neck a panting breath. An -eager mouth was kissing her throat, her cheeks. Instantly stiffening, -bracing herself, with all her unconscious fighting forces collected, -with her chest and her spine she furiously shook the man who had seized -her: she broke his hold and found herself face to face with the -aggressor. Her eyes flamed with anger, but he did not relax his grip. A -rough struggle followed, like that of animals that hate each other. -Rough and brief. Annette, whose outraged instincts gave her an added -strength, violently repulsed the man, and he tripped and stumbled. He -remained there before her, doubly humiliated, panting, scarlet, and they -looked at each other with rage in their eyes. Not a word was said. -Suddenly Annette clambered up the bank, crept through a hole in the -hedge to the other side, and fled. Leopold, who had come to his senses, -called after her. She stopped twenty paces away and would not let him -approach. They redescended the hill on different sides of the hedge, -keeping their distances, on their guard, hostile and ashamed. Leopold, -in a changed voice, implored Annette to come back, begged her pardon. -Annette turned a deaf ear towards him, but she heard him: the confusion -of this voice reached her through the barrier of her bitterness. She -slackened her pace. - -"Annette!" he besought her. "Annette! Don't run away! I don't want to -pursue you. See, I'm staying here, I shan't come near you. I've behaved -like a brute. I'm ashamed, ashamed. Call me any names you like, but -don't run away. I shall never touch you again, not even with the tip of -my finger. I'm disgusted with myself. I ask your pardon on my knees!" - -He knelt down awkwardly on the pebbles. He looked utterly wretched. He -was ridiculous. - -Annette, who was listening to him in cold silence, motionless, with her -face turned away, threw him a side-glance without looking at him. She -saw this humiliated man. She was touched by his humiliation; her warm -heart had the faculty of opening to the emotions of others as if they -were her own, and she blushed at Leopold's shame. She made a movement -towards him and said, "Get up!" - -He rose, and she instinctively recoiled a few steps. "You are still -afraid," he said. "You will never forgive me." - -"Don't speak of it any more," she answered dryly. "It's ended." - -They descended the road again. Annette was dumb and frozen. He had -difficulty in keeping silent. He was mortified, and he was trying to -justify himself. But he was not very eloquent, the poor man. His style -was not exactly noble. "I am a dirty cur!" he repeated angrily. - -Annette, still agitated, repressed a smile. Her mind was in a tumult, -and she found difficulty in calming it. She felt at the same time the -loathsomeness and the absurdity of the scene. She had not forgiven him, -and she was ready to pity the man who was accusing himself so -pathetically beside her. He continued to flounder. She listened to him -with bitterness, compassion, irony. He struggled to explain "this filthy -madness that passes through your body." . . . Yes, this madness, she -knew it, although it was not the time to tell him so. But he looked so -wretched that, in spite of herself, she said to him, "I know. One is mad -sometimes. What's done is done." - -They continued on their way, without speaking, their hearts heavy, sad -and embarrassed. Just as they were arriving at the spot where they had -left Sylvie, Annette made a gesture as if she were about to hold out her -hand to Leopold. But instead of doing so, she said, "I've forgotten it." - -He was relieved, though he was still troubled. Like a schoolboy caught -in some misdemeanor, he asked, "You won't say anything about it?" - -Annette gave him a little pitying smile. - -No, she said nothing. But at the first glance the sharp eye of Sylvie -had seen it all. She asked no questions. They spoke of other things. And -while all three, to hide their thoughts, made a great parade of -chattering all the way home, Sylvie observed the two others. - -From that day forward Annette and Leopold were never again alone -together. The jealous one was always watching; Annette too was on her -guard. In spite of herself she allowed her distrust to be viable. And -Leopold, who was hurt, brooded over his unconfessed bitterness. - - - - -XX - - -Annette's eyes were opened. She could no longer remain undistrustful of -herself and others. She could no longer pass along, laughing, as she had -done before, heedless, because she did not seek them, of the desires she -aroused. Society being as it is, customs being as they are, her -situation as a single woman, young and free, not only exposed her to -pursuit, but legitimized it. No one could believe that she had freed -herself, in the boldest fashion, in order to shut herself up afterwards -in a widowhood the constancy of which was without an object. She -imagined she had changed with maternity, and no doubt maternity was a -great flame. But another flame still burned in her. She tried to forget -it, because she was afraid of it; and she imagined that no one saw it. -But this was not so; in spite of her, the fire of love burned on. And -other people, if not she, were in danger of being its victims. Leopold's -adventure had shown her this. It was hideous. She was revolted by it. In -the disillusioned eyes of one who is not in love, the act of love seems -a grotesque or disgusting bestiality. As Annette saw it, Leopold's -attempt was both. But Annette did not have a calm conscience. She had -fanned these desires. She remembered her thoughtless coquetries, her -arts, the provocations she had given him. What had driven her into them? -That repressed force, that inner fire which she was obliged to foster or -stifle. Stifle it one cannot, one should not! It is the sunlight of -life. Without it, everything is plunged in shadow. But at least it -should not consume that to which it ought to give life, like the chariot -that was given into the hands of Phaëton. Let it follow its regular -course through the sky! Marriage then? After having so long avoided it, -the perception of the dangers that menaced her led her to tell herself -that a marriage of affection and esteem, of calm sympathy, would be a -bulwark against the demons of the heart and a protection against pursuit -from without. The more she convinced herself (and everything conspired -to convince her: her material and moral security, the attraction of a -home and the solicitations of her heart), the less resistance she -opposed to Julien's supplications. In order to yield to them, she went -over all the reasons she had for loving him. But she did not wait for -these reasons in order to love him. For already there had begun within -her that construction of the mind which creates an exalted vision of the -chosen one. Julien had preceded her in this, but as she had a richer and -more passionate nature she had soon outdistanced him. - -No longer on her guard, surrendering to the ardor of her frank nature, -she used none of those artifices with which a cleverer woman masks her -defeat when her heart is captured and she allows people to believe that -she is still mistress of it. Annette had made a gift of hers. She told -Julien. And from that very moment Julien began to be uneasy. - -He knew very little about women. They fascinated him and disconcerted -him. Rather than know them he preferred to judge them. He idealized -some, he condemned others. Towards those who fell into neither of the -two categories he remained indifferent. Very young men--and Julien, -owing to the slightness of his experience, had remained very young--are -always hasty in their judgments. As they are full of themselves and -their desires, they seek in others only for what they wish to find. -Whether on the moral or the carnal side, naïve persons are like roués -in one respect: when they love they are always thinking of themselves -and never of the woman. They refuse to see that she exists outside of -them. Love is the one test that can teach them. It teaches the few who -are capable of learning--but generally to their cost and that of their -partners; for when at last they know it is too late. The naïve -astonishment, old as the ages, that bewails the irreducible duality -which is the bitter fruit of love, that disappointed dream of unity, is -the usual result of this initial misunderstanding. For what does "love" -mean if it is not "loving someone else"? Without possessing the egoism -of Roger Brissot, Julien, through ignorance, had no less difficulty in -getting outside of himself; and he had a still more limited view of the -feminine universe. He needed to be led prudently by the hand. - -Prudent was the one thing Annette was not by nature, and love did not -teach her. It gave her the need of a generous confidence. Now that she -was sure of loving and being loved, she concealed nothing. Nothing in -the man she loved could have repelled her: why should she paint herself -up? She was healthy-minded, and she did not blush at being what she was. -Whoever loved her should see her as she was! She had clearly seen -Julien's naïveté, his lack of understanding, his alarm. She found a -tender and malicious pleasure in them. She was glad that she was the -first to reveal to him a feminine soul. - -One day she went to surprise him in his apartment. His mother opened the -door. An old lady, with gray hair tightly drawn across a calm brow that -was lighted up by two severe, watchful eyes, she inspected Annette with -a distrustful politeness and showed her into a neat, cold little -drawing-room with horsehair furniture. - -Dull family photographs and pictures from museums added a finishing -touch to the freezing atmosphere of the room. Annette waited alone. -After a whispered consultation in the adjoining bedroom, Julien dashed -in. He was delighted and he was frightened; he did not know what to say. -He spoke absent-mindedly. They were sitting in uncomfortable chairs with -stiff backs that thwarted every natural movement. Between them was one -of those drawing-room tables that you cannot lean upon, tables with -sharp edges that hurt your knees. The cold glitter of the carpetless -floor and the dead faces under glass, like plants in a herbarium, -congealed the words on their lips and made them lower their voices. This -drawing-room absolutely froze Annette. Was Julien going to keep her here -during the whole of her call? She asked him if he did not want to show -her the room where he worked. He could not refuse, he even wanted to do -so. But he looked so hesitant that she said, "Would you rather not?" - -He protested, explaining that it was not in order, and took her in. It -was in much better order than her own rooms had been at the time of -Julien's first call, but there was no air of gaiety in Julien's room. It -served him both for working and sleeping. Books, a well-known engraving -that represented Pasteur, papers on the chairs, a pipe on the table, a -student's bed. She noticed overhead a little crucifix with a branch of -boxwood. Settled in the badly upholstered arm-chair, she tried to put -her host at his ease by gaily recalling to him the memory of their -student days. She talked without prudery of what they both knew. But he -was distrait, embarrassed by her presence and her freedom of speech; he -seemed preoccupied with what was going on in the next room. Annette, -embarrassed by contagion, held out bravely and succeeded in making him -forget the "what will she think of it?" At last he became quite lively -and they had a good laugh. When she got up to go he became awkward -again, leading her out. In the corridor they passed the mother's room; -the door was ajar; Mme. Dumont, from discretion or in order not to have -to speak to the stranger, pretended not to see them. The two women had -only exchanged a glance, and they were enemies already. Mme. Dumont, the -mother, was shocked by the call of this bold girl with her free and easy -ways, her dear voice, her laughter, her animation: she scented danger. -And Annette, who, during the visit, had perceived between Julien and -herself this invisible presence, had felt angry: passing the room of the -old lady who turned her back on her, she spoke and laughed more loudly -still. And she jealously thought, "I'm going to take him away from her." - -A week later, Julien came in turn, one evening, after dinner. He had had -his first discussion with his mother on the subject of Annette; and he -meant to assert his will. They were alone. Leopold had taken little Marc -to the circus. When Julien left her, a little before eleven o'clock, -Annette suggested walking back with him for the pleasure of enjoying -together the fresh night air. But when they reached his door, Julien was -troubled at the idea of leaving Annette to return alone. She made fun of -his fear. None the less, he masted on going back with her again, and she -did not protest. She would have him all the longer with her! So they -returned by the most roundabout way; and without quite knowing how they -got there, they found themselves on a steep bank of the Seine. It was a -June night. They sat down on a bench. The poplars rustled above the dark -water in which were spread the reddish and yellow lights of the lamps on -the bridges. The sky was far away, the stars were feeble, as if the -monstrous city had drawn all the life out of them. The darkness was -above and the light below. They were silent. Words could no longer -express their thoughts, but, without looking at each other, each read -the other's mind. Julien's desire set Annette's heart aflame; but his -timidity kept him bound and motionless, and he did not dare even to lift -his eyes to her. She smiled and watched him, without turning her head, -as she kept her eyes upon the red reflexions on the river; he could not -make up his mind! Then she leaned towards him and kissed him. - -Drunk with love and gratitude, he kissed her in return, while the -insidious point of a dull anxiety fastened itself in his brain. A harsh -remark of his mother's: "These bold, poverty-stricken girls who are -trying to find somebody to marry them. . . ." He had pulled it angrily out -not long before, but the tip of the sting had remained under the skin. -He was ashamed. Mentally he asked Annette's pardon. He knew that the -insulting suspicion was false. He believed in her religiously, but he -was troubled. And each new visit troubled him more. Annette's freedom, -the freedom of her manners, the freedom of her ideas, the freedom of her -opinions on every kind of subject--especially on social morality--her -calm lack of prejudices, terrified him. He was as narrow in his way of -thinking as in his dress, rather dull in his ideas, inclined to -severity. She, on the other hand, was generously indulgent and full of -laughter. It did not occur to him that she might be as much of a Puritan -as he where she herself was concerned, while with an ironical tolerance -she applied to others their own measure. Tolerance and irony -disconcerted him. She saw this; and when he expressed himself on some -question with an unjust and excessive harshness she did not attempt to -oppose his way of thinking; she smiled at this naïve rigidity which did -not displease her. Her smile disturbed Julien more than her words. He -had the impression that she knew more than he. It was true. But how much -more? And just what did she know? What experience had she had? - -Like his mother--and some of his mother's spiteful remarks had -contributed to make him so--this man of fine but impoverished vitality -was vaguely alarmed by the brilliant health, the radiance of this woman. -He had the most ardent desire for her, but he was afraid of her. In the -walks they took together he felt that he cut a poor figure. Annette's -perfect poise in every company added to his embarrassment. And although -she would have liked this embarrassment if she had observed it, he was -humiliated by it. But she did not observe it. She was utterly absorbed -in the song within her. Annette mistakenly thought that no one but -herself heard this song; and she did not see Julien's anxious glance -when he asked himself, "At whom, at what, is she laughing?" - -She seemed so far away! - -He did not cease to see--he saw more clearly than ever--her great -intellectual force, her moral energy. At the same time she remained for -him a dangerous enigma. He was divided between two opposite feelings, an -invincible attraction and an obscure mistrust that were like a remnant -of the primitive instinct that recalls to the man and the woman of to-day -the original enmity of the sexes, for which the carnal union was a form -of combat. That suspicious instinct of defence is strongest perhaps in -a man like Julien who is at once keenly intelligent and poor in -experience. As it is impossible for him to see a woman just as she is, -he sees her now too simply, now as full of snares. - -Annette contributed to these oscillations of thought by her way of -alternately saying everything and saying nothing, of revealing -everything and concealing everything, her bursts of passionate -expansiveness and her hermetic silences, which sometimes lasted during a -good half of their walk. . . . These terrible silences--what man has not -suffered from them?--during which the life of the companion who walks at -your side goes down into those regions that you will never know! . . . -Not that as a usual thing they cover very profound secrets. If you -plunged into them you would find that they did not rise above your heel. -But whatever the depth may be, the sheet of silence is opaque: the eye -cannot penetrate it. And the tormented spirit of the man has plenty of -time to conjure up all sorts of alarming mysteries. The idea would never -have entered the head of a Julien that he might be the author of them, -that if a woman is silent it is often because she knows so well how -little the man understands her. Annette's silence, which was ironical -and a little weary on some days, tolerated a false interpretation of her -feelings on the part of her lover, for she knew that he loved the false -and did not love the true. - -"If you wish . . . As you wish! . . . Of course. I am not as I am. I am -as you see me." - -But these silences of acquiescence only lasted for a time. From the -moment Annette perceived that there might be danger in frank -explanations (since Julien was unable to understand them) and that it -would be more prudent to hold her peace, she spoke. To be silent in -order to avoid uselessly annoying Julien, yes. But to deceive him, no. -And if there was danger in speaking, all the more reason. That was the -time when you couldn't avoid speaking any longer. The greater the risk, -the greater was the pride that desired to brave it. This test of love -made her heart beat. If the test succeeded, she would love Julien all -the more. If it did not succeed? . . . It would succeed. Didn't Julien -love her? Let come what might! - -She played the game loyally. But there are some men who would prefer to -have their partners cheat. When Sylvie learned of Julien's love and the -plan for the marriage, she scolded Annette: good heavens, she wasn't -thinking of telling the whole truth? Of course it was absolutely -necessary for him to learn a part of it. When they were married the -official records would be sure to enlighten him. But there was always a -way of dressing up the truth. Since this boy loved her he would close -his eyes. She had only not to open them! To do so would be really too -stupid! Later there would be time to tell each other everything. . . . -Sylvie spoke honestly out of her experience. She wished her sister's -welfare. (She wished her own too; she would not have been displeased to -see them out of her house with all possible speed.) From her point of -view one didn't owe the truth to everyone, especially to one's fiancé: -it was enough to love him! Annette's truth, of course, was innocent, but -men are weak. They cannot endure the full truth. It has to be given to -them in small doses. . . . - -Annette listened to Sylvie calmly and spoke of something else. Useless -to reply: it would only make her more obstinate. Sylvie's morality was -not hers, and she preferred not to say what she thought of it. Sylvie -was Sylvie. She loved her. . . . But what a look she would have given -anyone else who had spoken to her so! - -"Poor Sylvie! . . . She judges men from those she has known. But my -Julien belongs to another species. He loves me as I am. He will love me -as I was. I have nothing to conceal from him. I have never done him an -injury. If any injury was done I did it to myself alone." - -Fully considering the risks, but trusting in Julien's magnanimity, she -made up her mind to speak. She brought up the subject of her past life. -With a common modesty, they had always avoided this topic. But more than -once, Annette had read in Julien's eyes what he burned and trembled to -ask, what he wanted both to know and not to know. - -She placed her hand tenderly on Julien's hand and said, "My friend, you -have always been so adorably discreet with me. I thank you for it. I -love you. . . . But I must tell you at last something you don't know -about me, something that I have been. You must know me. I am not free -from reproach." - -He made an apprehensive gesture that protested against what she was -going to say, as if he half wished to prevent it. She smiled. - -"Don't be afraid! I haven't committed any great crimes. At least I -shouldn't call them so. But perhaps I am too indulgent to myself, for -the world regards these matters differently. It is for you to judge. I -believe in your judgment. I am what you decide I am." - -She began to tell her story. More frightened than she wanted to appear, -she had prepared in advance what she intended to say. But simple as she -imagined it would be to utter this, it was very painful to her. To -overcome this constraint she made herself appear more free from emotion -than she was. She even revealed at moments a touch of irony, directed at -herself, which scarcely corresponded with the anxiety this recital -stirred in her: she resorted to it in order to protect herself. . . . -Julien did not understand it at all. He saw in this attitude only a -shocking light-mindedness and lack of conscience. - -She said first that she was not married. Julien had feared this. To tell -the truth, he had even been silently sure of it. But he had always hoped -that the contrary would turn out to be the case, and that Annette should -tell him this, that doubt should no longer be possible, filled him with -consternation. Intensely Catholic at heart, under his superficial -liberalism, he had not freed himself from the idea of sin. Instantly he -thought of his mother: she would never accept it. He foresaw a struggle. -He was very much in love. In spite of the grief that Annette's -confession caused him, in spite of the real fall her past weakness -signified for him, the "error" of her whom he loved, he loved her, he -was ready, in order to have her, to fight against his mother's -opposition. But someone must help him; Annette must second him. He was -weak; to endure the combat, he needed to summon all his strength, not -the least element of which was the strength of illusion. He needed to -idealize Annette, and if Annette had been clever she would have helped -him to do so. - -She saw the grief which her words caused. She had expected it; she was -sorry for it, but she could not spare him. Since they were to live -together, each would have to take his share of the trials and even the -errors of the other. But she did not suspect the conflict that was -taking place in him; and if she had thought of it, she would have -remained confident of the victory of love. - -"My poor Julien," she said, "I am giving you pain. Forgive me. It is -hard for me too. You believed that I was better than I am. You gave me a -higher place, too high, in your mind. . . . I am a woman. I am -weak. . . . At least, if I have made a mistake, I have never deceived -anyone else. I have always acted in good faith. I have always done that." - -"Yes," he said hastily. "I'm sure of it. He deceived you, didn't he?" - -"Who?" asked Annette. - -"That wretch. . . . Forgive me! . . . That man who left you." - -"No, don't accuse him," she said. "I am the guilty one." - -She attached to this word "guilty" only the sense of a warm regret for -the pain she was causing him, but he seized upon it greedily. In his -confusion he longed to hold fast to the idea that Annette was the victim -of a seduction and that she had repented. . . . He had an extreme need -of this notion of "repenting"; it was for him a kind of compensation for -the hurt he had suffered, a balm for the wound it could not heal but -could render endurable; it gave him a moral superiority over Annette of -which--to be fair to him--he would never have made use. In short, since -he had no doubt about Annette's sin, he also had none about the need of -repentance. His Christian nature was imbued with both these ideas. The -most liberal Christian never frees himself from them. - -But Annette had sprung from a race with a different kind of soul. The -Rivières might be pure or impure, in the sense that Christian morality -attaches to this word; but if they were pure it was not in obedience to -an invisible God or his too visible representatives and their Tables of -the Law. It was because they loved purity as moral cleanliness, as -beauty. And if they were impure they regarded it as an affair between -themselves and their own consciences, not the consciences of others. -Annette could not admit that she must give an account of herself to -others. If she confessed herself to Julien, it was a gift of love that -she was making him. In all honesty, she owed him merely an account of -her life. But of her inner life she did not owe him any account. She -gave it to him of her own free will. She saw now that Julien would have -preferred to have her embellish the truth. But she was too proud to -profit by a lying excuse of which she felt no need. On the contrary, -when she understood what he wanted her to say she took pains to make it -clear that she had given herself to her lover. - -Julien, who was completely upset, would not listen to her. - -"No, no, I don't believe you," he said. "You are too generous. Don't -accuse yourself to defend that man who deserves nothing but contempt." - -"But I'm not accusing anyone," she said simply. - -Her words struck against his consciousness, but he refused to -understand. - -"You are trying to exonerate him." - -"I am not exonerating him. No one's to blame." - -Julien struggled. "Annette, I implore you not to talk that way." - -"Why?" - -"You know very well it's wrong!" - -"I know nothing of the kind." - -"What? You don't regret anything?" - -"I regret making you unhappy. But I didn't know you then, my friend. I -was free and alone; I had no obligations except to myself." - -"Is that nothing?" he thought. He did not dare to say it. - -"But still you regret it?" he said, insistently. "You know very well you -made a mistake." - -He did not want to accuse her. But he so longed to have her accuse -herself. - -"Perhaps," she said. - -"Perhaps," he took her up, dejectedly. - -"I don't know," said Annette. - -She saw where Julien wanted to lead her. Perhaps she had made a mistake, -if yielding to a transport of sincere love and pity was a mistake. -Perhaps, yes. "But if in my heart I can regret a sincere error, I don't -need to excuse myself for it. My heart has remained alone with its -suffering, communing with it alone in the silence. It must commune now -with its regrets. They concern nobody. . . . Regrets? . . . Let's be -honest to the end! There are no regrets!" After reflecting, she said, "I -don't think I made a mistake." - -Perhaps she was exaggerating in reaction against Julien's unconscious -pharisaism. (Poor Julien!) But even in the moments when she loved him -the most she could not bring herself to utter the word of regret which -he was expecting. . . . "I should so much like to say it! But I can't. -It isn't true." Regret what? She had acted in accordance not only with -her rights but with her happiness. For, costly as the latter had been, -she had had it--the child. And she knew (she alone) that this gift of -the child, far from dishonoring her, as a stupid public opinion -supposed, had purified her, delivered her for a long time from her -troubles, brought into her life order and peace. . . . No, for the sake -of assuring her future love she would never be base enough to slander -her past love. She even felt now a certain gratitude towards this Roger -who had only been an agent of her destiny, so inferior to the love and -the flame of life he had lighted in her. - -Julien felt this jealously. "Ah, you still love that man?" he said. - -"No, my friend." - -"But you are not angry with him." - -"Why should I be angry with him?" - -"And you are thinking of him." - -"I am thinking of you, Julien." - -"But you haven't forgotten him." - -"I could not forget anyone who had done me good, even if he ceased to -exist. Don't reproach me, you who have done me so much more good!" - -Julien was honest enough to respect Annette's frankness, and in his -heart he felt her nobility. This for him was an unaccountable spectacle, -the unwonted dignity of which revealed to him a new world--the new -woman. But another part of his nature was in revolt. His masculine -instincts were wounded. His Catholic and bourgeois prejudices were -horrified. The idea that he had, that he continued to have, of Annette -was poisoned with degrading suspicions. Instead of being surer of a -woman who gave up her secret to him with complete loyalty, he was less -sure of a woman whose past weakness had been revealed to him. He doubted -her fidelity in the future. He thought of that other living man who had -possessed her and whose child would be his. He was afraid of being -deceived, he was afraid of being ridiculous. He was mortified, and he -could not forgive her. - -As soon as Annette fully perceived the dangerous struggle that was going -on in Julien's mind and saw that the hope she had formed was menaced, -she trembled. She was utterly in the grip of the love she had provoked. -All her power of loving, all her capacity for happiness, she had centred -in this Julien. And in truth she had half deceived herself. But she had -only half deceived herself. Julien was not unworthy of her; his -qualities were real; they deserved love. Different as they were, they -would be able to live together with a little mutual effort to understand -and tolerate each other--and a little suffering, no doubt; and was a -little suffering too much to pay for a firm affection? Annette would -have been good for him; she would have invigorated him; she would have -been that great wind of confidence in life that would have swelled his -sails and carried him whither he could never have gone without her. And -Julien's delicate tenderness, his respect for woman, his moral purity, -even that candid religious faith which Annette did not share, would have -been wholesome for her; they would have given her passionate nature a -basis of security, the peace of home and of a soul of which one is sure. - -Ah, the misery of hearts that miss their destiny through a -misapprehension which their passion exaggerates, that know it and -reproach themselves for it and always will reproach themselves, but will -never yield the point that separates them just because they love too -much to make a moral concession to which they would disdainfully consent -with those to whom they are indifferent! - -Annette tormented herself now with the anxieties to which she had given -birth in Julien's mind. Was Julien right? . . . She was not infatuated -with her own judgment. She tried to understand other ways of judging. -Her character was not entirely formed: her moral instinct was strong, -but her ideas were not yet established; she reserved the right to revise -them. While quite young she had realized how artificial was the morality -of those who surrounded her, and she had found nothing upon which to -lean, nothing but her reason, which had often deceived her. She was -always seeking; she sought for other ways of thinking in which she might -breathe freely. And when she encountered a sincere conscience like -Julien's she scrutinized it eagerly: would this voice respond to the -appeal of her heart? She aspired to believe, this woman in revolt! She -was seeking, seeking for her moral homeland. . . . How she would have -loved to enter Julien's, to subscribe to its laws, even if they -condemned her! But it was not enough to long. She could not do it. What -Julien desired simply wasn't human! - -"I realize," she said to him tenderly, "that you are judging me as the -world judges. I don't reproach you. I admire the rigorous, preservative -force of its laws. They have their place in the sum of things and I know -that their roots are deep in your family. It is natural for you to obey -them. I respect them in you. But, my friend, all the efforts of my will -could never make me deny an action, even if it is condemned by everyone, -which has given me my child. Dear Julien, how could I deny what is my -only consolation, the purest joy perhaps that heaven will grant me in my -whole life? Don't try to blight it, but if you love me share my -happiness! There is nothing in it that can injure you!" - -She knew, even as she spoke, that he did not understand; she only -irritated him the more. And she was broken-hearted. But what could she -do? Lie to him? It was too dreadful that she had even thought of this -humiliating resource. But could she allow the breach to grow wider in -this affection that was so dear to her? It was as if this breach had -extended to her heart. . . . She was in mortal terror every time she -found herself in Julien's presence. What was he going to read to-day in -her face? - -As for him, he abused her love with all the baseness of a man who is -certain that he is loved. He knew that he was hurting her and he went on -hurting her. He in turn felt his power, and he began to desire her less -now he was sure that she desired him. - -She understood it all! She was in despair because she had betrayed her -weakness. But she went on. She abandoned herself to a superstitious -feeling: if fate intended her to be Julien's wife, she would be, -whatever she said; whatever she said, she would lose him if that was her -fate. - -But secretly she wished to believe that, in exchange for her submission, -fate would be favorable to her. Julien would be touched. - -"I put myself in your hands. Will you love me the less for that?" - - - - -XXI - - -A strange travail was going on in Julien's mind. He loved her--no, he -desired her--as much as always. Who could say which it was? (He did not -want to know.) . . . In short, he still wanted her. But he was sure now, -not only that his mother would never consent to his marriage, but that -he himself would never be able to make up his mind to it. For many -reasons: bitterness, wounded vanity, moral disapproval, what might be -called a jealous repulsion. But he preferred not to dwell on these -reasons. "Yes, we know you, but don't show yourselves." His mind -arranged expedients to satisfy at once his hidden reasons and his -desires. . . . Annette, in the past, had declared herself a free woman -in love. He did not approve of this, no; but, after all, since she was -as she was, why should she not be just this with him whom she loved? - -He did not put it to her as bluntly as this. He pleaded all the things -that made marriage impossible (he brought forth new ones as fast as she -refuted them): the insurmountable obstacles, his mother's opposition, -the necessity of living with his mother, his financial straits, with -Annette accustomed to wealth, to society--poor Annette, reduced for two -years to giving private lessons!--the difference in their minds and -temperaments. . . . (This last argument came up just at the end, to the -dismay and terror of Annette, when she believed she had surmounted the -others.) With obstinate unfairness, Julien depreciated himself, the -better to mark the difference between them. It was enough to make one -laugh and weep. It was pitiable to see him looking for all these poor -pretexts for escaping, while she, forgetting her pride, pretended not to -understand, wore herself out finding replies, struggled feverishly to -keep him from leaving her. - -He was not leaving her. He did not refuse to take. He refused to give. - -When Annette perceived the object of all these barricades and what he -wanted of her, she had a feeling less of revolt than of prostration. She -did not have enough strength left to be indignant. To struggle was no -longer worth the trouble. That was what he wanted! . . . He! . . . -Wretched soul! . . . So he didn't know himself? So he didn't realize how -he appeared in her eyes? If he had been loved it was just because of his -solid integrity. It wasn't at all, not at all, becoming for him to play -the Don Juan, the libertine, the free lover! (For, in spite of her -grief, Annette's mind kept its ironical clearness, and it never failed -to seize the comic that was mingled with the tragic in life.) - -"My friend," she thought, tenderly, pityingly, disgustedly, "I loved you -better when you condemned me. Your rather narrow but lofty idea of love -gave you the right to do so. But now you no longer have that right. What -have I to do with this inferior love you are proposing to me to-day, this -love without trust? If trust is lacking there is nothing left between -us." - -Every love has its essence: where one blossoms, another withers. Carnal -love dispenses with respect. The love that is based on respect cannot -lower itself to ample enjoyment. - -"Why," cried Annette in her heart, which was rising in revolt, "I would -rather be the mistress of the first passer-by who pleased me than of -you, you whom I love!" - -For with him it would be degrading. Everything or nothing! - -To Julien's suggestions she thus opposed a firm, affectionate refusal -that hurt him. They continued to love one another, while judging each -other severely; and neither of them could resign himself to the loss of -their happiness. There they were, appealing to each other, desiring each -other, even offering themselves--incapable as they were of pronouncing -the word that would bring them together--the one through inner weakness, -that moral debility which with rare exceptions (if a man can dare to say -it) belongs to man, and which he does not recognize, the other through -that deep-seated pride which belongs to woman and which she does not -confess either: for the two sexes have been so deformed by the moral -conventions of a society built upon the victory of man that they have -both forgotten their real character. The weaker of the two is not always -by nature the one who calls himself so. The woman is richer in the -energies of the earth, and if she is caught in the snare that man has -thrown over her she remains a captive who has not surrendered. - -Julien dimly perceived the justice of Annette's motives, and he did not -question their honesty, but he could not do violence to the timidity of -his own heart. He followed the opinion of the world, which he respected -less than Annette. By himself he would have accepted Annette's past, but -he could not accept it under the eye of the world; and he persuaded -himself that this was the eye of his own conscience. He did not have the -courage to take for a wife this woman whom he desired; and his -pusillanimity he called dignity. He was not able to delude himself -completely; and he was angry with Annette because he had not been able -to delude her either. He ought to have broken with her, but he would not -consent to this. And when Annette spoke of leaving him he held her back, -hesitated, suffered, caused her suffering. He was no more willing to -accept her than to give her up. He played the cruel game of keeping up -her hope, which he later killed. He shunned her when she was most loving -and was most loving when she resigned herself. Annette went through -painful crises of wounded affection. She ate her heart out. Sylvie saw -this and finally extorted the truth from her. She had seen Julien and -she had made up her mind about him. "He is one of those people," she -said, "who never make a decision till they are forced to do so. You can -do it; make him consent. He will be grateful to you later." - -But Annette had suffered too much from the thought that Julien might -reproach her some day (even if he never expressed it) if she married -him. When it was no longer possible to ignore the irremediable weakness -of his character and the futile hope of a lasting decision from which -his troubled spirit would no longer try to draw back, she settled the -question in good earnest. She wrote to Julien and told him not to -prolong this useless torment any further. She was suffering, he was -suffering, and they had to live. She had to work for her child, and he -had his own work. She had taken him away from it too long. They had both -been using up their strength, and they had none too much of it. Since -they could not do each other the good they had hoped for, let them not -do each other harm. They must not see each other any more. She thanked -him for all that he had been to her. - -Julien did not answer. Silence fell between them. But in their hearts, -bitterness, regret, wounded passion still fought with one another. - - - - -XXII - - -Their love had not remained a secret from those who were close to them. -Leopold had watched it with an annoyance he had not been able to conceal -from Sylvie. His painful memory of that far from brilliant adventure of -his had left in his mind an involuntary resentment which had not become -less active a few months later. Far from it. For he found it possible to -pretend to himself that he had forgotten the reason for it. Sylvie, -already on the watch, was struck by his strange behavior: she observed -him and she found it impossible to doubt that he was jealous. In -accordance with the admirable logic of the heart, she was angry with -Annette. She took a violent dislike to her. In a measure the state of -her health explained these violent reactions. But the unfortunate thing -in such cases is that the reverberation is prolonged beyond the -condition that has caused them. - -In October Sylvie gave birth to a little girl. Joy for everybody. -Annette became as passionately attached to the child as if it had been -her own. It gave Sylvie no pleasure to see it in her arms, and she no -longer tried to conceal the hostility that she had hitherto repressed. -Annette, who, for a few weeks, had been listening to unkind words from -her sister, which she attributed to the passing illness, was no longer -able to doubt Sylvie's estrangement. She said nothing, avoiding any -occasion for annoying her. She hoped for a return of the old affection. - -Sylvie was on her feet again. The relations between the two sisters -remained apparently the same, and an outsider would not have noticed any -change. But Annette observed in Sylvie a cold animosity that hurt her. -She would have liked to take her hands and ask her, "What's the matter? -What have you against me? Tell me, dear!" - -But Sylvie's look froze her. She did not dare. She felt intuitively that -if Sylvie spoke she would say something irreparable. It was much better -to remain silent. Annette felt in her sister a wish to be unjust against -which she could do nothing. - -One day Sylvie said to Annette that she wanted to have a talk with her. -Annette, with her heart beating, wondered, "What is she going to say to -me?" - -Sylvie said nothing that could offend Annette, not a word of her -grievances. She talked to her about getting married. - -Annette gently changed the subject. But Sylvie was insistent and -suggested a match: a friend of Leopold, a sort of business agent, a -journalist in some vague way, with a certain style, the manners of a man -of the world, and varied, too varied, resources, who sold automobiles -and wrote advertisements, acted as an intermediary between the -manufacturers and their customers in clubs and drawing-rooms, and -received commissions from both sides. It was a proof that Sylvie had -changed greatly in relation to her sister that she could offer her such -a choice, and Annette was aware of the lack of affection this deliberate -slight indicated. With a gesture she stopped the description of the -candidate. Sylvie took it in bad part, asking if Annette found the -suggested suitor beneath her pretensions. Annette said that she had no -pretensions except to live alone. Sylvie replied that this was easy to -say, that it was all very well to want to live alone, but that first one -had to have the power to do so. - -"But do you think I can't?" - -"You? I challenge you to do it!" - -"You are unjust. I can earn my living." - -"With the help of other people." - -In the tone, even more than in the words, there was something -intentionally wounding. Annette blushed, but she did not take her up; -she did not want to bring about an open quarrel. - -During the following weeks, Sylvie's ill-humor was very noticeable. Any -pretext served her, the least disagreement in conversation, a detail in -dress, Annette's lateness at dinner, the noise little Marc made on the -stairs. They never went out together any more. If they had arranged for -a walk on Sunday, she set out with Leopold, without saying anything to -Annette, using the latter's unpunctuality as an excuse. Or at the last -moment she would call off the party they had planned. - -Annette saw that her presence was a burden. She spoke timidly of looking -for an apartment in some other quarter that would be less remote from -her pupils. She hoped they would protest, beg her to remain. They -pretended not to have heard her. - -She was cowardly; she stayed on. She clung to this affection which she -felt was escaping her. It was not only Sylvie whom she did not want to -leave. She was attached to little Odette. She endured more than one -painful affront without seeming to notice it. She lengthened the -intervals between her visits. - -Even so, they were too frequent for Sylvie. She certainly had not -returned to her normal state. An unwholesome jealousy was working in -her. Once when Annette was innocently playing with Odette, without -noticing a dry warning that Sylvie had given her to stop, the latter -rose, irritated, and snatched the little girl from her arms. "Go away!" -she said. - -There was such animosity in her eyes that Annette, struck by it, said to -her, "But what have I done? Don't look at me that way! I can't bear it. -Do you want me to go away? Do you want me not to come back any more?" - -"At last you understand," said Sylvie, cruelly. - -Annette turned pale. "Sylvie!" she cried. - -With a cold rage, Sylvie went on: "You are living at my expense. Very -well. That's all right. But that's enough. My husband and my daughter -are mine. Hands off!" - -Annette, with white lips, repeated, in an agonized tone, "Sylvie, -Sylvie!" - -Then suddenly a transport seized her too. "You wicked thing!" she cried. -"You will never see me again!" - -She ran to the door and went out. - -Ashamed of her violence, Sylvie pretended to laugh. - -"We shall see her again this evening." - - - - -_SUMMER_ - - -PART TWO - - - - -XXIII - - -Annette left Sylvie's apartment intending never to enter it again. She -was weeping. She was burning with shame and rage. These two passionate -natures could not cease to love each other without almost hating each -other. - -Impossible for Annette to remain under the same roof with her! If she -had had the means she would have moved the next day. Happily for her, -she had to yield to practical necessities: to give notice, to look for -another apartment. In her first fury she would have preferred to place -her furniture in storage and camp out in a hotel. But this was not the -moment to squander her money. She had very little laid aside; what she -earned was spent as she went along; even when she had no recourse to her -sister's aid, the feeling that she could appeal to her in case of need -gave her a security that spared her any too keen anxieties over the -future. When she came to reckon up what she must have in order to live, -she was obliged to recognize, to her mortification, that if she were -thrown upon her own resources her actual work would not suffice to -support her. Living with her sister and taking some of their meals -together lightened her expenses. The child's clothes were given him by -Sylvie, and Annette paid only for the material of her own dresses. And -this was not to mention the things she borrowed or those which, while -they belonged to one, served for two, the small gifts, the Sunday -excursions, the little extra pleasures that brightened the daily -monotony. And then the credit which her sister enjoyed in the -neighborhood gave Annette the benefit of a certain latitude in paying -her bills. Now she would have to count upon paying cash for everything. -The beginning would be hard. The moving, the deposit, the expenses of -settling. And the great question, who was going to look after the child? -A contradictory question: for she had to earn money for the child, and -in order to earn it she had to leave home, and who would take care of -him? Annette had to admit that she would never have surmounted these -difficulties if they had come earlier, when Marc was very young. How did -other women manage? Annette was sorry for the unhappy souls, and she -felt humiliated. - -Place the child in a boarding-school? He was old enough to go to school -now. But she was unwilling to shut him up in one of those menageries. -What she had heard about those old-time institutions (things have been -somewhat improved since then), what she instinctively surmised about -this physical and moral promiscuity, had led her to regard it as a crime -to put one's child into them. She wanted to believe that the boy would -be unhappy there. Who could say? Perhaps he would have been very glad to -get away from her. But what mother can believe that she is a burden to -her child? She was not even willing to leave him at one of these schools -for his meals. She told herself that this was because of Marc's delicate -health; he needed special food; she had to watch over his diet. But it -was extremely fatiguing to come home from lunch when her lessons obliged -her sometimes to run to the other end of Paris. Going, coming, always in -movement. And the lessons did not bring in enough money. Some urgent -expense was always turning up upon which she had not reckoned. The boy -was growing very large, and Annette regretted that he was not like those -little beans which never grow faster than their shells. She had to -clothe him. Nor could she permit herself to neglect her own appearance; -her occupation would have prevented this if her pride had not done so. -So she had to find new resources. Copying to be done at home, the work -of some foreigner or a translation to be revised (an ungrateful task, -poorly remunerated); secretarial work, one or two mornings in the week -(also poorly remunerated); but all these things, taken together, were -enough. To earn money by any means! Annette did many things at once. She -made herself hated by the hungry rivals whom she thrust out of her way -in her pursuit of bread. But this time the devil could take the -hindmost. No more sentimentality! She had no time for it. You cannot go -back and pick up those who have fallen. It was true that she sometimes -had the vision in passing of some strained face that stared at her with -hostile eyes, some evicted competitor whom she would gladly have helped -in other days. A pity, but she did not have the time. She had to get -there first. She knew now where to find work, and she knew the shortest -way to it. Her diplomas, her degree, gave her an assured superiority. -And she was not unaware that she had advantages on another side, the -personal side, her eyes, her voice, her way of dressing, her skill in -handling her clients. Between her and other applicants they rarely -hesitated. Those that were sacrificed could not forgive her. - -Her new life was established on a healthily rigorous system. No empty -room for useless thoughts. From one day to another, every day was as -full as a nut, full and hard. After the trepidation of the first weeks, -when she did not know whether she could manage to live and keep her -child alive, she became used to it, she grew more confident, she even -ended by finding pleasure in the difficulties she had overcome. No -doubt, in the rare moments when the necessity of acting no longer held -her mind tense, when at night she laid her head on her pillow, there -were times before she went to sleep when her accounts, the thought of -her budget, weighed upon her. . . . If she dropped on the road? . . . If -she fell ill? . . . I won't. . . . Peace, I must sleep. . . . Happily, -she was tired; sleep did not keep her waiting And when the day returned, -there was no longer room for those "ifs" and apprehensions. No more room -for that which enervated, enfeebled, broke the soul. Penury and toil put -everything in its proper place--that which belonged to the necessary and -that which belonged to luxury. - -The necessary: daily bread. Luxury: the problems of the heart. . . . -Could she have imagined it? These problems seemed to her now of -secondary importance. All very well for those who have too much time on -their hands! She had neither too much nor too little. Just enough. One -thought for each thing she did, and not one to spare. So, full of -strength, she felt like a well-trimmed ship that is launched on the -waves. - -She was in her thirty-third year, and nothing had yet wasted her -energies. She perceived that she not only did not need protection but -that she was stronger without it. The difficulty of her life invigorated -her. And its first benefit was in liberating her from the obsession of -Julien, from the nostalgia of love, which, dull or violent, had poisoned -all her past years. She realized how satiated she was with sentimental -dreams, sweet things, tender things, hypocritical sensuality; merely to -think of them was repugnant to her. To be occupied with the rough facts -of life, to undergo its wounding contact, to be obliged to be hard -herself--that was good, it was vivifying. A whole part of herself, the -best part perhaps, certainly the healthiest, was born again. - -She no longer dreamed. She no longer tormented herself, even about her -child's health. When he was ill she did what had to be done. She did not -think about it beforehand. She no longer thought about it, indefinitely, -afterwards. She was ready for everything, she was confident. And that -was the best medicine. Dining these first years of desperate toil she -was not ill a single day, and the child caused her no real anxiety. - -Her intellectual life was no less curtailed than her emotional life. She -scarcely had time to read any longer. She might have suffered from this, -but she did not. Her mind made up the deficiency from its own resources. -She had enough to do to sort and arrange her new discoveries. For during -these first months she discovered a great deal; she discovered -everything. And yet in what respect had things changed? As for work, she -had been very familiar with that--or she had thought she was familiar -with it. And this city, these people were just the same to-day as -yesterday. - -Between one day and the next, however, everything had changed. From the -moment she had begun to seek her bread she had made the real discovery. -It had not been love, not even maternity. She carried these things -within her, but her life had expressed only a small portion of herself. -Hardly had she passed into the camp of poverty, however, than she -discovered the world. - -The world varies, according as one considers it from above or from -below. Annette was in the street now, between the rows of houses that -stretched away on both sides: she saw the asphalt, the mud, the menace -of the motor-cars and the flood of passers-by. She saw the sky above -(rarely luminous)--when she had the time! The space between vanished: -all that had formed the object of her life hitherto, society, -conversation, theatres, books, the luxury of pleasure and the -intelligence. She knew very well that they were there and she might have -enjoyed them, but she had other things to think about. Watching her -steps, looking out for herself, hurrying. . . . How all these people -ran! . . . From above one saw nothing but the meandering of the river: -it seemed calm, and one did not notice the strength of the current. The -race, the race for bread. . . . - -A thousand times Annette had thought of the state in which she found -herself to-day, in the world of toil and poverty. But what she had -thought then bore no resemblance to what she thought now that she was -taking part in it. - -Yesterday she had believed in the democratic axiom of the Rights of Man, -and it had seemed to her unjust that the masses should be deprived of -them. To-day, the injustice--if there remained any question of just and -unjust--was that rights existed for the privileged. There are no rights. -Man has no right to anything. Nothing belongs to him. He has to conquer -everything anew every day. That is the Law: "Thou shalt earn thy bread -in the sweat of thy brow." Rights are the deceitful invention of a -fallen combatant, to sanction the spoils of his past victory. Rights are -nothing but the strength of yesterday, heaping up its treasures. But the -living right, the only one, is work. The conquest of every day. . . . -What a sudden vision of the human battlefield! It had no terrors for -Annette. The courageous soul accepted this combat as a necessity; and -she found it just because she was "in form," young and robust. If she -conquered, so much the better! If she was conquered, so much the worse! -(She would not be conquered. . . .) She had not given up pity, but she -had given up weakness. The first of her duties was "Don't be -pusillanimous!" - -By the new light of this law of labor, everything became dear to her. -The old faiths were put to the test, and a new morality rose on the -ruins of the old, cemented on this heroic foundation. The morality of -freedom, the morality of strength, not of Pharisaism and debility. And -examining under this light the doubts that troubled her, especially that -which lay deepest in her heart, "Have I the right to my child?" she -answered, "Yes, if I can keep him alive, if I can make a man of him. If -I can do this, everything will be all right. If I cannot, everything -will be wrong. This is the only morality; everything else is -hypocritical." - -This inflexible decision redoubled her vigor and her joy in the -struggle. - -She was meditating in this fashion one day as she was walking about -Paris, going from one task to another. The walking excited her mind. Now -that her daily activity was methodically regulated, her dreams resumed -their rights. But they were waking dreams, clear, precise, dreams that -had nothing misty about them. The more limited her time was, the more -she made of these slight intervals; like ivy the hours climbed up, -covering the walls of the days. Annette brought her enlarged conceptions -of the true human morality face to face with the experiences of her day. -Work and poverty had opened her eyes. She had a new perception of the -untruthfulness of modern life which she had not seen when she was caught -in it. The monstrous futility of this life--nine-tenths of this -life--particularly for women. . . . Eating, sleeping, procreating. . . . -Yes, a tenth part had some use. But the rest? . . . This "civilization"? -What people call "thinking"? Is man--_vulgus umbrarum_--really made for -thought? He wants to persuade himself that he is, he puts himself into -the attitude for it, and he believes that he holds it, as by consecrated -exploits. But he does not think. He does not think over his newspaper, -or in his office, before the wheel on which his everyday activities -revolve. The wheel turns with him, turns empty. Did they think, those -young girls whom Annette had undertaken to teach? What was the meaning -of the words they heard, read, uttered? To what did their life reduce -itself? A few immense, depressing instincts brooding in their torpor -under a mass of playthings. Desire and enjoyment. . . . Thought was also -one of their playthings. Who was deceived by it? Themselves. The garment -of this civilization, its luxury, its art, its movement and its -noise--(that noise! one of its masks, to make itself believe that it was -hurrying toward some end! what end? It hurried in order to stupefy -itself)--what lay beneath it? Emptiness. People gloried in it. They -gloried in their tinsel, in their chatter, in their trinkets. How rare -were the men who revealed the shining light of Necessity! To the eternal -brute in man the voice of its gods and its sages says nothing or is only -one triviality the more. It never escapes from the confines of its -desire and boredom. Like man himself, human society is a meretricious -structure. Custom holds it together. A touch can lay it in ruins. . . . - -Tragic thoughts. But they could not depress the ardent Annette. It is -the inspiration within that gives joy or sadness, not ideas. Under an -untroubled sky an anæmic soul perishes of melancholy. A vigorous soul, -exposed to storms, wraps itself as happily in shadows as in sunlight. It -knows quite well that they alternate. Annette came home sometimes -crushed with fatigue and the feeling of a dark future. She would go to -bed and sleep; in the middle of the night some ridiculous dream would -wake her up laughing. Or, more often, in the evening, as she sat with -her brow bent over her work and the fingers followed their path, her -brain, following its path in turn, would suddenly pick up some absurd -thought and she would be full of merriment. She had to take care not to -laugh too loudly in order not to awaken Marc. "I'm an idiot," she said, -as she dried her eyes. But her heart was lightened. These childish -relaxings, these sudden reactions, were a wholesome heritage that came -to her from her family. When the heart is full of clouds, the wind of -joy rises and drives them away. - -No, she had no need of distractions, books. Annette had enough to read -in herself. And the most thrilling of books was her son. - - - - -XXIV - - -He was approaching his seventh year. He had adjusted himself to the -change of his surroundings much more readily than might have been -expected. Disagreeable or not, it was a change. He had cast his skin -like a little snake. Ungrateful childhood! All Sylvie's indulgences and -all her petting--she was so certain of her power over him!--were as if -they had never been. After forty-eight hours he no longer even thought -of them. - -What pleases or displeases a child is never what you expect. The first -thing Marc appreciated in his new life was the school whither his mother -sent him pityingly--and the hours of solitude when there was nobody to -watch him. - -Annette had established herself in a little apartment on the fifth floor -on the populous Rue Monge. A steep stairway, small rooms, noise from -without; but there was space above the roofs, and she needed this. The -noise did not disturb her; she was a Parisian, accustomed to movement; -it was almost necessary to her; she could think all the better in the -midst of the hurly-burly. Perhaps her nature had also been transformed -with maturity: the plenitude of physical life and regular work had given -her a poise, a nervous solidity, which she had never known, but which -would not endure forever. - -The apartment consisted, on the street side, of Annette's bedroom, which -served as a sitting-room (the bed formed a divan), Marc's little room, -and a narrow recess, a sort of corner-closet. Across the passage, which -was dark at midday, was the dining-room over the court and a kitchen -that was practically filled by the stove and the sink. - -Between the mother's room and that of the child the door remained open, -and Marc was too small to protest. He was at the undecided age that -floats between the sexlessness of early infancy and the first uncertain -awakening of the little man. He was no longer in the one stage and not -yet in the other. He would still run from his own bed to his mother's on -Sunday morning; and on great days he would allow her to dress him from -head to foot. On other days he would have fits of rudeness and shyness. -And he was full of curiosity also. Especially he had attacks of -secretiveness which he did not wish to have disturbed. He would slyly -shut his door. Annette would open it again. He could not make a movement -that she did not hear. It was unbearable! So he wouldn't move at all. -Then she would forget him for a little while. Not for long! . . . - -Happily, Annette was not always there. She had to go out. Marc went to -his school, which was not far away. Annette took him there in the -morning, and when she was free (rarely) in the afternoon. But she could -not come for him to take him home again, for this was the hour of her -lessons. He had to come home alone, and this made her anxious. She had -tried to arrange with a neighboring family for the servant to bring Marc -home when she brought their child. But this did not suit Marc, and he -slipped away beforehand. So, proud and timorous, he would come back -alone and all alone shut himself up in the apartment. Good times till -his mother's return! Annette scolded him for his independence. But -although she would never have admitted to herself that she had this evil -feeling, she was not too sorry that he should be able to get along -without comrades. She distrusted comrades. She did not want anyone to -spoil her son. . . . Her son! Was she quite sure that he was hers? Of -course she made an effort to repress her egotistical love. No longer, as -in the days when he was very small, did she feel the blind, gluttonous -need of absorbing the little being in her passion. She saw in him now a -personality. But she persuaded herself that she had the key of this -personality, that she knew better than he its laws and its happiness; -she wanted to carve it in the image of her secret God. Believing, like -most mothers, that she was incapable of creating what she desired -herself, she dreamed of creating it through him who had sprung from her -blood. (That eternal dream, eternally frustrated, of Wotan!) - -But in order to shape him, she had to catch him. Not let him escape! She -did everything to envelop him. Too much. Every day he escaped more. She -had the discouraging impression that every day she knew him less. One -thing she knew well: his body, his physical health, his illnesses, the -least symptoms. She had an intuition that never deceived her. She would -hold him before her, bathe him, touch him, care for him . . . this dear -fragile body of the little hermaphrodite. He looked transparent. But -what was inside him? She devoured him with her eyes and her hands; he -was entirely at her mercy. - -"Heavens, how I love you, little monster! And do you love me?" - -"Yes, Mamma," he replied politely. - -But what was he thinking in his heart? - -At seven Marc had scarcely a feature of his family. In vain had Annette -explored him, sought for some resemblance, tried to imagine one. . . . -No, he was not like her, either in the shape of his forehead, or in his -eyes, or in that swelling of the lips, so characteristic of the -Rivières, and especially of Annette, as if the will, the inner ardor, -had expanded them. The only point in common was the color of the iris, -and this was lost in a strange world. . . . What world? . . . The -father's? The Brissots'? Scarcely. At least, not yet. Jealously Annette -said, "Never!" - -And yet would she have been so displeased to find some trace of Roger in -her son's features? Would it not have given her an obscure pleasure? She -remembered the man to whom she had given herself with a mixture of -bitterness and unconfessed attraction--an attraction less for the real -Roger than for him of whom she had dreamed. In fact, it was to this -dream that she had given herself. If she had seen him again in the image -of her son, she would have had a strange feeling of victory, the feeling -that she had wrested from him this form she loved in order to animate it -with her own soul. Yes, as long as Marc's spirit was like her own, she -would have been glad to find Roger's features in him. - -But he resembled neither Roger nor herself. Roger's face, which lacked -the original expression of the Rivières, had a simple, regular beauty -of line: it was an easy book to read. But this child's face, the meaning -of this expression . . . how describe it? It was so fleeting. . . . - -Pretty, delicate features, but not well proportioned, the narrow brow, -the effeminate chin, eyes a little aslant, the nose--whose did it -resemble, this long, tapering, finely arched nose?--and the wide, thin -mouth with pale, slightly crooked lips? . . . Even when he was motionless -he seemed to be moving; his air was uncertain and changing. . . . No -doubt he was seeking for his form: he was still fluctuating, but -in what direction would he decide to go? Or would he decide not to have -any direction? - -Since his serious illness, he had been a child who at a first glance -would have been called nervous and impressionable (as perhaps he was). -But as you watched him, he disconcerted you with his calm ways, his air -of indifference, his reserved expression. Not disagreeable, not sulky, -not saying no. . . . "Yes, Mamma." . . . But you saw at once that he was -not paying any attention to what you said. He had not heard it. . . . Or -had he heard it? It was hard to be sure. . . . And he looked at his -mother to see what was going to happen next, and she looked at him. . . . -The little sphinx! . . . All the more a sphinx because he didn't know -that he was one. He knew no more about himself than Annette knew about -him, though this was the last thing to cause him any anxiety. When you -are seven you have ceased trying to understand yourself and have not yet -begun to do so again. On the other hand, he was trying to understand -her, his mistress and servant. And he had the time for this because she -shut him up with herself for days together. They observed one another -mutually. But she was no match for him. - -Annette deceived herself in thinking that he did not resemble any one -she knew. There were astonishing similarities between his spirit and -that of his grandfather Rivière. But Annette, though this occurred to -her, had known very little about her father. He had charmed her so much -that she had never seen the real Raoul Rivière. She had merely had a -few suspicions, especially since she had read the famous correspondence. -She had not wanted to dwell on this. Even if she had to bolster them up, -she preferred to keep the pious and tender memories that had been -momentarily shaken. Besides, she had only known the Raoul of the last -phase. But if old Rivière had been able to return and inspect the -little love-child, as he would have known so well how to do, he would -have said, "I am beginning again." - -He was not beginning again. Nothing ever begins again. He had merely -come back in certain details. - -What mischievous tricks blood plays! Over Annette's head the two -confederates shook hands. And one of the most striking traits which the -frank Annette had transmitted from the grandfather to the grandchild was -a remarkable aptitude for dissembling. Not through any need to deceive. -Raoul Rivière had enough good-natured contempt for his contemporaries -and felt strong enough never to have any fear of showing himself, when -it pleased him, quite without disguise. (It had often pleased him, and -people would quote ferocious words of his that carried all before them.) -No, this was a gratuitous pleasure, a delight in the burlesque, a -theatrical tendency, a malicious taste for concealing his moral identity -in order to mystify people. The child, innocently of course, had -inherited this. His soul, which was still full of inconsistencies and -very heterogeneous, with nothing of the buffoon in its depths, had -slipped at birth into this malicious attitude, and it used the organs -that Nature had made for it. Just as it would have tried its beak, its -claws or its wings if it had passed into the body of a woolly or -feathered animal, so, enveloped as it were in a fold of one of old -Rivière's coats, it revealed once more the wiles of the grandfather. - -Marc was guarded in the presence of grown-ups, and he could read in them -everything that concerned him. On that side his faculty of attention was -keen. When he saw what they imagined he was, he became it--at least -unless they irritated him or he wanted to amuse himself and was seized -with the whim of being contrary. - -One of his occupations was to take apart the mechanism of these living -playthings, look for their hidden springs, their weak points, try them, -play with them, make them go. This was not very difficult, for they were -stupid and unsuspicious. And first of all, his mother. - -She puzzled him. There was something enigmatic about her. He had heard -allusions to this subject in Sylvie's workshop, when he was sitting -under the feet of the working-girls, who were not thinking of him. He -did not understand much of it. But this added to the mystery, and he -interpreted it. Divining, discovering. In this alert little ferret-like -body, motionless, with shining eyes, the mind was always working. - -Now that he was shut up with her, often for days, because of his -ill-health, his winter colds and the greedy affection of his mother, she -was his principal resource. He watched her curiously while he sang to -himself, moving about, pursuing his other occupations--for a child's -intelligence, like its body, is lithe and hard to hold. No matter if he -is facing the other way, he sees you with eyes in the back of his head, -and his cat's ears turn like weathercocks at the sound of your voice. If -this all-observing attention chases three or four hares at a time, it -never loses the trail, it amuses itself, it knows very well that -to-morrow it will begin again. . . . The hare allowed herself to be -caught. Expansive, easily carried away, prodigal in her feelings, -Annette was never niggardly. She spent herself without calculation. - -At one moment she spoke to him as to a very little child, and she hurt -his feelings: he thought her ridiculous. Again she would speak to him as -to a companion of her thoughts, too old for his age, and she wearied -him: he thought her a bore. Sometimes she let herself think out loud, -carried on a monologue before him, as if he could understand it. Then he -thought her queer, and he watched her with a severe, mocking look. He -did not understand her; but people who do not understand never surrender -their right to judge. - -He had adopted an artificial attitude that was convenient for him -because he could apply it to all cases: the impertinent, absent-minded -politeness of a well-brought-up child who appears to listen because he -must, but who is not in the least interested in all these things, who -has his own concerns and, when you speak to him, waits till you have -finished. At other times he amused himself playing at kissing her so as -to give her pleasure. He knew that his mother was nearly bursting with -happiness. The foolish woman responded with all her heart. When she fell -into his snares, he had a sort of affectionate contempt for her. When -she busied herself in a way that he had not foreseen, he was annoyed, -but he had more respect for her. - -He was incapable of playing one part very long. A child is too yielding -and is always jumping from one thing to another. A moment after he had -pretended to be so warm-hearted and had enchanted her with his -effusions, he unblushingly betrayed his indifference in the harshest -way. Annette was completely upset. - -There came a time when she ceased to be deceived or provoked any longer, -especially at the rare moments when a vague suspicion warned her that -Marc was obstinately posing. Then, nervously and violently--we ask -modern pedagogues to forgive us--she spanked him. Truly she was going -against all good principles and affronting the dignity of her child! -From the point of view of an Anglo-Saxon, poor Annette dishonored -herself forever. But we old French people don't go quite so far as that. -_Qui bene amat_. . . . The maxim still flourishes in bourgeois families -that have preserved some tincture of Latin. We have all been "well -loved." And at bottom we believe, three-quarters of the time, like -Annette's boy, that we are getting more than our deserts. But it is also -true that if, like him, we continue to love those who spank us, the -spanking results in their losing a little of their prestige. Let us -admit that perhaps it is for this reason that we--Marc and we--provoke -them! - -He had a fine time afterwards playing the part of the outraged victim. -And Annette reproached herself for abusing her power. She felt that she -was at fault. She would try to find a way back into his good graces. He -would wait for her to come to him. . . . - -The triumph of weakness! It is a weapon that women are expert in -handling. But the most feminine of the two in this case was the child. -This young morsel of flesh, still all bathed in the maternal milk, was -more than half feminine, and it had all the wiles and tricks of a girl. -Annette was disarmed. Beside the little rogue she was the strong sex. -The stupid strong sex, which is ashamed of its strength and tries to win -forgiveness for itself. The contest was not equal. The child made a fool -of her. - - - - -XXV - - -But he was no artful comedian amusing himself. Like his grandfather, he -had more than one nature. Very few had been able to see what lay hidden -beneath the mocking mask of old Rivière, the drama concealed by that -jesting cynicism, that appetite for play-acting which is sometimes -characteristic of conquering spirits. Raoul had had his dark depths -which he never revealed. They exist more often than one might suppose -under the Gallic laugh. One keeps them to oneself. Annette, who had her -own secrets, had never told them to her father, and his secrets she had -known no more than she knew those of her son. They all remained walled -up in their own inner lives. A strange reserve. People blush less at -exposing their vices and their appetites--Raoul had fairly paraded -his--than the tragedy of the soul. - -Of this latter Marc had his share. A child who lives alone, without -brothers or companions, has time to wander about these caves of life. -Very deep and vast were the caves of the Rivières. The mother and the -child might have met in them. But they did not see each other; they -passed very close to each other more than once, imagining that they were -very far apart. Both of them, with eyes bandaged, Annette's by the demon -of passion that still held her, the child by the egoism that was natural -to his age--both were in the dark. But Marc as yet was only at the -entrance of the cavern; he was not, like Annette, seeking for the Way -out, bruising himself against the walls; he was crouching on one of the -first steps, dreaming of the future. Incapable of explaining it to -himself, he was building his life. - -He had not had to go far to find the redoubtable wall before which the -terrified ego recoils. Death. The wall rose on all sides. Illness -skirted it like an encircling road. It was vain to seek for a passage -through it. The wall was massive and had no breach. It had not been -necessary for any one to tell Marc that the wall was there. Instantly, -in the shadow, he had scented it, like a horse with his mane rising. He -had spoken to no one about it. No one had spoken to him. The whole world -was in agreement on the subject. - -Annette, like the young women of to-day, was a bad teacher who, as a -girl, had heard a great deal of talk about teaching, and was not -unwilling to talk about it as a matter of conscience. She attached more -importance to the method of bringing up children than the mothers of -former days who had gone about it blindly. But once the child was there, -she had found herself helpless before the thousand and one surprises of -life, incapable of playing her part, making up theories which she did -not apply, or which she abandoned at the first attempt. In the end she -had let them all go and fallen back upon instinct. - -The religious problem was one of those that had troubled her, and she -had not been able to reach any practical solution of it for the child. -Most of the friends of her youth, in the rich, republican bourgeoisie, -had been brought up with religion by their mothers, without religion by -their fathers. They did not even feel the clash of the two conceptions. -(The two get along together very well in the world, like many other -contradictory facts, for neither feeling has a third dimension.) She -herself had gone to church, as she had gone to school: she had taken her -first communion, as she had taken her diploma, conscientiously, without -emotion. The ceremonies at which she had been present in her wealthy -parish seemed to her to belong to the order of the world. She had -separated from them when she separated from the world. - -Modern society--and the Church is one of its pillars--has succeeded so -well in denaturing and weakening the great human forces that Annette, -who bore within her a richer faith than that of a hundred devotees, -imagined she was not religious. For she confounded religion with -prayer-wheels and the ceremonies of an obsolete exoticism, a luxury of -soul for the rich, a snare for the eyes and that consolation for the -heart of the poor which assures the foundations of their poverty and of -society. - -Since she had given up her religious observances, she had never felt the -need for them. It did not occur to her that when she had her fiery -transports of conscience, her passionate monologues, she was really -saying mass. - -She did not think of giving her son what she had gone without herself. -Perhaps the question would not even have occurred to her if, -paradoxically, Sylvie had not brought it up. Sylvie, who had no more -religion than a Parisian sparrow, would not have considered herself -married without the concurrence of the Church; and it seemed to her -indecent that Annette should not have her son baptised. Annette had not -thought of this. But she had it done so that Sylvie might be the -godmother. Then she thought no more of the matter, and things remained -where they were until Julien's arrival. That Julien had a practical -faith did not give Annette one, but it rendered the faith worthy of -respect in her eyes and brought her attention back to the problem she -had neglected. What was she to do for Marc? Send him to church? Teach -him a religion in which she did not believe? She asked Julien, who was -scandalized; he affirmed emphatically that the child had to be -instructed in the divine truths. - -"But if they are not truths for me? Must I tell lies when Marc asks me -questions?" - -"No, don't tell lies, but allow him to believe. It's for his good." - -"No, it couldn't be for his good for me to be dishonest. And what -authority would I have when he found it out? Wouldn't he have the right -to reproach me for it? He would not believe in me any longer. And how do -I know whether this faith he would learn would not thwart his real -development later?" - -Here Julien's brow darkened, and Annette hastened to change the subject. -But what was she to do? She could not, as her Protestant friends -advised, give her son a course in all the religions and leave him to -choose for himself when he was sixteen years old. . . . Annette burst -out laughing at this idea. What a strange conception of religion, as if -it were a subject for an examination! - -In the end Annette had done nothing. She walked about with Marc, went -into churches, sat down in a corner, marvelled with him at the -upspringing forest of these lofty trunks of stone, the underwood gleams -that filtered through the stained-glass windows, enjoyed the flight of -the vaults, the distant chanting, the vague accompaniment of the organ. -It was a veritable bath of reverie and self-communion. - -Marc did not dislike going about in this way, with his hand in his -mother's, listening, whispering. It was sweet, it was warm, it was -delightful. . . . Yes, if it didn't last too long. This sentimental -somnolence bored him. He needed to move about and think of definite -things. His little mind worked away, observed, noticed this crowd of -praying people, watched his mother, who did not pray. And without -expressing them he made his own reflexions. He asked few questions, much -fewer than most children would have asked, for he was very proud and he -was afraid of saying something naïve. - -But he did ask, "Mother, who is God?" - -"I don't know, my dear," she replied. - -"Then what do you know?" - -She smiled and pressed him against her. "I know that I love you." - -Yes, the old story. He knew this, but it was not worth coming to church -for. - -He was not very sensitive and he had no taste for the vague soulfulness -in which "these women" delighted. Annette, when she had her child beside -her, when she was without too many material cares, during an hour of -relaxation earned amid the tasks that pursued her, was happy. She did -not have to go very far to find God: he was in her heart. But Marc had -found in his heart nothing but himself, Marc: everything else was mere -foolishness. He had to be clear about things. Just what was this God? -The man up there over the altar, with his girlish petticoat and his -gilded shell? The verger with his staff and his exposed calves? Those -painted-up images--one in each chapel--that grinned at you with their -sickly smiles like embarrassed ladies whom he didn't like? - -"Mamma, let's go on." - -"But isn't this beautiful?" - -"Yes, it's beautiful enough. Let's go home." - -What was God? . . . He no longer insisted on asking his mother. When -grown-ups confess that they do not know something, it is because they -are not interested in it. . . . He continued his rather impatient -inquiry alone. He heard prayers, "Our Father who art in heaven"--a -localization that excited the scepticism of the more wide-awake of these -modern cubs for whom heaven was on the point of becoming a new field of -sport. He thumbed the Bible, along with other old stories, with a bored -curiosity, asked a few questions, caught a few replies, here and there, -with a negligent air--"God, some invisible person who created the -world." That was what they said. It was too far off. And not clear. He -was like his mother: God did not interest him. One king more or -less. . . . - -But what did interest him was his own existence, and what threatened it, -and what was going to happen to it afterwards. Some dull conversations -with Sylvie that had taken place in his presence had very early aroused -his attention. The shivering pleasure with which these girls spoke of -accidents, sudden deaths, sicknesses, burials, chattering all the -time! . . . Death excited them. The animal instinct of the child bristled -at this word. He would have liked to question his mother about it. But -Annette, who was very healthy, never spoke of death and never thought -about it, at this period of her life. She had plenty of other things to -do! Earning the little boy's living. When, from morning till evening, -she had to think of the here and now, the beyond seemed a luxury. It -only becomes essential when those one loves have passed to the other -side. Her son was here. For the rest, if she lost him neither life nor -death would have had any value for her. She was too passionate to be -satisfied with an immaterial world, a world without a beloved body. - -Marc saw her, vigorous, intrepid, busy, heedless of these fears; and he -would have been ashamed to betray his weakness. So he was obliged to -help himself alone. This was not easy. But, as one may suppose, the -child did not embarrass himself with problems of complicated thought. He -reduced the question to its proper dimensions. Death meant the -disappearance of others. Let them disappear: that was their affair. But -was it possible that he might disappear? - -Once he overheard Sylvie say, "Oh, well, we're all going to die. . . ." - -He asked, "I too?" - -"Oh," she laughed, "you have time enough." - -"How much?" - -"Till you are old." - -But he knew very well that they buried children too. Besides, even if he -were old he would still be himself. Some day Marc would die. . . . It -was terrifying. Was there no possible means of escaping it? Somewhere he -must find something like a nail in a wall, something he could cling to, -a hand he could grasp. "I don't want to disappear." - -The need of this hand might have led him to God, as it leads so many -others, this outstretched hand that men in their anguish see projected -into the night. But that his mother did not seem to be looking for this -support was enough to drive away his thought. Even while criticising -Annette, he felt the influence of her attitude. That in spite of what -was awaiting her she could remain calm did not reassure him, but it -obliged him to stand as straight as she did. No matter if he was a -nervous, puny little boy, rather stubborn, he was not Annette's child -for nothing. . . . Since she, a woman, is not afraid, I must not be -afraid. - -But it was not given to him, as it was given to these grown-ups, not to -think about it. Thought comes and goes; you cannot keep it down, -especially at night, when you cannot sleep. Well, then, he had to think -of it and not be afraid: "What is it like to be dead?" - -Naturally he had no means of knowing. Save for a few pictures in the -museum, he had been spared every kind of funereal spectacle. Stiff in -his little bed, he felt the walls of his body. How could he find out? An -imprudent word revealed to him, quite close by, a window that opened on -the abyss into which he burned to look. - -One summer day he was dawdling by the window. He caught some flies and -was pulling off their wings. It amused him to see them floundering -about. It did not occur to him that he was doing them any harm; he was -playing a game. They were living toys, and it made no difference if he -broke them. . . . His mother surprised him at this occupation. With the -violence that she was unable to repress, she seized him by the shoulders -and shook him, exclaiming that he was a disgusting little coward. - -"What would you say if someone broke your arms? Don't you know that -these creatures suffer just as you do?" - -He pretended to laugh, but he was astounded by this. It had not occurred -to him. These creatures were like him! He did not feel the least pity -for them. But he looked at them now with other eyes, troubled, -attentive, hostile. . . . A fallen horse in the street. . . . A howling -dog that had been run over. . . . He watched. . . . The need of knowing -was too strong for his pity to be awakened. . . . - -At Easter, as the child, after a gray, damp winter that had been neither -cold nor sunny, had suffered from a mild, but insidious, attack of -influenza that had drained all the color from his cheeks, Annette rented -for a fortnight a room in a farmhouse in the valley of Bièvres. It -contained only one big bed for herself and the child. He did not like -this very much: but she had not asked for his advice. Happily, he was -alone during the day; Annette went back to Paris for her work, and she -left him in the care of the landlady, who paid very little attention to -him. Marc would quickly vanish into the fields. He looked around him, -rummaged about, tried to grasp, from animals and things, some secret -that concerned him; for everything in nature he related to himself. -Wandering through the woods, he heard some boys making a noise in the -distance. He was not looking for the company of other children; he was -not strong enough, and he would have wanted to dominate them. But he was -attracted just the same. He approached and saw that there were four or -five of them forming a circle about a wounded cat. The animal's back was -broken, and the children were amusing themselves poking it, tormenting -it, prodding it with the ends of their sticks. Without stopping to -think, Marc threw himself into the group and struck about him with his -fists. When the surprise was over, the band fell upon him shouting. He -beat a retreat, but he remained a few steps away, hidden behind some -bushes, and stopped his ears. He could not make up his mind to -leave. . . . He returned. The young scoundrels hailed him with jeers, -"Hello, skinny! Are you afraid? Come over here and see him croak!" - -He came. He did not want to seem a milksop. Besides, he wanted to see. -The animal, with its eyes glazed and half torn away, was lying on its -side, its hindquarters rigid, already dead; its chest was panting and -its head trying to lift itself while it moaned in distress. It could not -die. The children were convulsed with laughter. Marc looked at it, -petrified. Then suddenly he seized a stone and struck with it furiously -at the creature's head. A raucous cry broke from him. He struck, struck -harder, like a madman. He was still striking when all was over. . . . - -The boys looked at him, embarrassed. One of them tried to make a joke. -With blood on the fingers that were still grasping the stone, Marc, -pale, with knitted brows, a wicked look in his eye and a trembling lip, -stared at them. They went away. He heard them laughing and singing in -the distance. Setting his teeth, he walked home, and once at home he -said nothing about it. But at night, in bed, he cried. Annette took him -into her arms. The soft body was trembling. - -"What is this wicked dream? My angel, it's nothing." - -He was thinking, "I killed it. I know what death is." - -The terrifying pride of knowing, of having seen and destroyed! And -another feeling, which he could not comprehend, a feeling of horror and -attraction. . . . The strange bond that unites the slayer and the slain, -the fingers daubed with blood and the broken head. . . . To which -of the two did the blood belong? . . . The animal was no longer -suffering. . . . He still felt its last agonies. . . . - -Happily, at this age, the mind cannot cling very long to the same -thought. It would have been dangerous if this had become a fixed idea. -But other images passed and their current refreshed his brain. The idea -remained, however, in the depths of him: its presence betrayed itself, -from time to time, in sombre gleams, bubbles of air that slowly mounted -from the mud of the brook. Under the soft crust of his nature a hard -core was hidden: death, the force that kills. . . . I am killed and I -kill. . . . I will not let myself be killed! Victory to the strongest! -I shall fight! - -Pride, an obscure pride that sustains its weakness, like a suit of -armor. Whence did this steel come if not from his mother--the mother for -whom he felt contempt nevertheless because of her effusiveness and -because he wound her around his finger? He was not unaware of it. Even -in the days when his preference had been all for Sylvie, who petted him, -he had recognized Annette's superiority. And he may have imitated her. -But he had to defend himself against the encroachments of this -personality who loved him too much, who got in his way and threatened -his life. He remained in arms against her, and held her at a distance. -She too was the enemy. - - - - -XXVI - - -Sylvie had disappeared from the horizon. When the first months of -resentment were past, she had a certain feeling of remorse as she -thought of the difficulties against which her sister was struggling. She -was waiting for Annette to come and ask her for help: she would not have -refused it, but she was not going to offer it. But rather than ask for -it Annette would have allowed herself to be cut to pieces. The two -sisters were at swords' points. They had seen each other in the street -and avoided each other. But once when Annette had met little Odette with -one of the workers, she had not resisted an affectionate impulse; she -had taken the child in her arms and devoured her with kisses. On her -side, Sylvie, seeing Marc passing one day on his way home from -school--he appeared not to see her--stopped him and said, "Well, don't -you recognize me any more?" - -One can imagine the high and mighty manner this little animal assumed as -he said, "Good afternoon, aunt." - -All by himself he had made his little reflexions, and, just or unjust, -he had thought it best to identify himself with his mother's cause. "My -country, right or wrong." Sylvie was completely taken aback. She asked, -"Well, are things going as they should?" - -He replied coldly, "Everything is going very well." - -She watched him as he walked stiffly off, blushing from the effort he -had imposed on himself. He was neat and nicely dressed. . . . The mean -little thing! "Everything is going very well." She could have boxed his -ears. - -That Annette could manage her own affairs without her added to Sylvie's -indignation. But she lost no opportunity to hear about her, and she did -not give up the idea of lording it over her some day. If she could not -do so actually, she could at least do so in thought. She was not unaware -of the austere life which her sister led; and she did not understand why -Annette condemned herself to it. She knew her well enough to be aware -that a woman of her type was not made for this moral restraint, this -joyless life. How could she force her nature in this way? What obliged -her to live like a widow? In the absence of a husband she had no lack of -friends who would be happy to lighten her troubles. If she had agreed to -this, Sylvie would perhaps have respected her sister less, but she would -have felt closer to her. - -She was not the only one who did not understand Annette. Annette -understood hardly any better herself the reasons for her monastic life, -the fierce dread that led her to draw back, not merely from the -possibility, but from the mere idea of one of those natural pleasures -that no religious or social law could have prevented her from enjoying. -(She did not believe in the morality of the Church, and was she not -mistress of herself?) - -"What am I afraid of?" - -"Of myself." - -Her instinct did not deceive her. For such a nature, filled with -passions, desires, blind sensuality, there is no such thing as innocent -pleasure, there is no play without consequences. The least shock would -deliver her over to forces of which she was no longer the mistress. She -had known long before the moral perturbation caused by her brief, -passing encounters with love. The dangers would be very different to-day! -She would no longer resist. If she gave herself up to pleasure, she -would be utterly swept away by it; she would lose the faith she -needed. . . . What faith? Faith in herself. Pride? No. Faith in that -inexplicable, that divine something that was within her and that she -wanted to transmit unsullied to her son. Such a woman has no choice, -outside the strict discipline of marriage, between an absolute moral -restraint and the frankest abandonment to her passionate instincts. -Everything or nothing. . . . Nothing! - -And yet, at moments--in spite of her transports of proud fervor--for -several months this agonizing thought gripped her by the throat: - -"I am wasting my life." - - -Marcel Franck reappeared. Chance threw him in Annette's path; he had -ceased to think of her, but he had not forgotten her. He had had a -number of amorous adventures. They had not left too many marks on his -flexible heart--only a few lines, like fine scratches, about his clever -eyes. But they had left him with a certain fatigue, a good-natured -contempt for his easy conquests and for the conqueror. Scarcely had he -caught sight of Annette than he felt again the old sensation of -freshness and certitude that strangely attracted this blasé sceptic. He -explored her eyes; she too had seen life! In the depths of her glance -there were submerged lights, paths where vessels had been, shipwrecks. -But she seemed calmer and more assured. And he again regretted this -wholesome companion who had already escaped him twice. He was not too -late! Never had they seemed more ready to understand each other. - -Without questioning her, he was able to find out in his own circumspect -way about her resources and her occupations. A little later he offered -her some work that was very well remunerated: it consisted in arranging -notes for the catalogue of a private collection of works of art of which -he had charge. A natural excuse for spending a few hours each week with -her. They were able to work and talk at the same time. The intimacy of -the past was soon reëstablished. - -Marcel never asked Annette about her life, but he talked about himself. -This was the best way of finding out what she thought. The comic side of -his love affairs offered a variety of subjects in which he delighted. He -enjoyed making Annette his amused confidante, although she scolded him a -little. He was the first to make fun of himself, as he made fun of -everything; and she laughingly listened to his free confessions, for she -was very tolerant where she herself was not concerned. He understood -this to mean something else, and it gave him pleasure to see this gay -intelligence that was so indulgent to life. He no longer found in her -any trace of the moral pedantry, the intolerance of the young girl who -is rather circumscribed by her virtue. While they exchanged their -ironical reflexions, it occurred to him that it would be charming to -form an attachment with this witty friend, to share with her the -adventure of life. How? In any way she chose. Mistress, wife, as she -wished. He had no prejudices. Just as he had attached no importance to -Annette's "blossoming maternity," so he was not concerned with any -encounters she might have had since then. He would never torment her -with any exacting surveillance; he had no curiosity about her secret -life. Let every one have his own secrets and his share of liberty! He -only asked that in their life together she should be laughing and -intelligent, a good comrade of his interests and pleasures. (And in -pleasure he included everything, intelligence, affection and the rest.) - -He thought so well of this that he spoke to her about it one evening in -the library when they had finished their work and the sun, through the -trees of an old garden, was gilding the tawny bindings of the books. -Annette was completely surprised. What, he had come back to that; it was -not finished? "Oh, my friend," she said, "how kind you are! But it can't -be thought of any more." - -"Oh, yes, it can be thought of," he said. "Why shouldn't it be?" - -"Well, really, why not?" Annette said to herself. "I'm glad to talk to -him, to see him. But, no, it's impossible! It cannot even be discussed." - -Franck sat facing her on the other side of the table, his blond beard in -the sunlight. With his two arms on the table, he took Annette's hands -and said, "Think about it for five minutes! . . . There . . . I shall -say nothing. . . . We have known each other for how many years? . . . -Twelve? . . . Fifteen? . . . I don't need to explain myself. Everything -I can say you know." - -She did not try to disengage her hands; she smiled and looked at him. -Her clear eyes were fixed upon him and yet did not see him because they -had already gone beyond him. She was looking into herself. She thought, -"This is not even to be discussed? Everything should be discussed! Why -is it impossible? He doesn't displease me. He is a handsome fellow, -attractive, good enough, intelligent, agreeable. How easy life would -be! . . . But I could not live his life with him. He is pleasant, and -everything pleases him. But he respects nothing, men, women, love or -Annette. . . ." (It was she who was speaking, for she saw herself from -outside.) "He is certainly not ungenerous so far as delicate attentions -and social respect are concerned. He gives them to me in good measure. -Perhaps he even treats me with special favor. . . . But what a complete -sceptic! Is there anything he takes seriously? He delights in his -absolute lack of faith in human nature. He discounts its weaknesses with -a complacent and sympathetic curiosity. I think he would be disappointed -if the day came when he was obliged to respect it. A good soul! Yes, -life would be easy with him--so easy that I should no longer have any -reason to live." - -Beyond that she no longer put her thought into words. But the thought -pursued her, and her mind was made up. - -Franck had let her hands drop. He felt that his cause was lost. He got -up and walked to the window, and with his back to the window-pane he -philosophically lighted a cigarette. He was behind Annette; he saw her -motionless, her arms stretched over the table, as if he were still in -front of her. Her beautiful blond neck and her round shoulders. . . . -Lost! . . . For whom, for what, was she keeping herself? Some new -Brissot-foolishness? No, he knew that Annette's heart was free. Well, -then? She was not cold. She needed to love and be loved! - -Above all, she needed to believe. . . . To believe in what she did, in -what she wanted, in what she was seeking, in what she was dreaming, to -believe in what she was, in spite of all disgusts and disappointments, -to believe in herself and in life! Franck destroyed respect. Annette -could more easily endure not being respected than losing respect--her -own--for life. For this is the source of energy. And without the -strength to act, Annette would have been nothing. For her the passivity -of happiness was death. The essential distinction between human beings -consists in this, that some are active, the rest passive. And of all the -forms of passivity, the most mortal for Annette would have been that of -a mind tranquilly established, like Franck's, in the comfort of a doubt -that no longer recognized doubt, but voluptuously surrendered itself to -the indifferent stream of nothingness. Suicide! No, she refused that. -Then what did she think her life would be? Perhaps nothing very happy or -very complete. Perhaps it would utterly miss fire. But whether it missed -or not, it would be an effort towards an end. . . . Unknown? Illusory? -Perhaps. No matter! The effort was not illusory. . . . And let me fall -by the wayside so long as it is _my_ wayside! - -She became aware of the long silence and realized that Franck was no -longer there. She turned, saw him, smiled, rose and said, "Forgive me, -my friend! Let us remain as we are. It is so good to be friends!" - -"And not better otherwise?" - -She shook her head. "No!" - -"Well," he said, "here I am blackballed at the third examination!" - -She laughed and, going to him, said mischievously: "Would you like at -least to have what I refused you at the second examination?" And putting -her arm about his neck she kissed him. An affectionate kiss. But there -was no mistaking it--the kiss of a friend. - -Franck was not deceived by it. "Well," he said, "let me hope that in -twenty years I shall be admitted." - -"No," said Annette, laughing. "There's an age-limit! Marry, my friend. -You have only to choose. All the women are waiting for you." - -"But not you." - -"I'm going to remain a bachelor-girl." - -"You'll see, you'll see. For your punishment you will marry when you are -over fifty." - -"_Frère, il faut mourir._' Before then." - -"Until then, the life of a nun." - -"You don't know what delights it has." - - - - -XXVII - - -Annette was bragging. It was not all delightful. She often felt cramped -in her cloistered life. She was the kind of nun who would not have found -it too much to have an abbey to manage and a God to love. The abbey was -reduced to a fifth-floor apartment and God to her child. This was very -little and yet it was immense. It was not what she was meant for, but -she made a great deal of it. All her dreams turned round it, and with -this sort of treasure she was well provided. If her everyday life was -apparently puritanical and poor, she had her revenge in the life of her -imagination. There, soundlessly and without friction, the eternal -"enchantment" continued to flow. - -But how enter these retreats of the soul? The inner dream is not woven -of words. And to make oneself understand, to understand oneself, one -must use words. . . . That heavy, sticky paste which dries on the tips -of the fingers! To understand herself, Annette sometimes felt the need -of securing her dreams by telling them over to herself in a soft voice. -But these recitals were not faithful transcriptions--scarcely -transmutations; they took the place of the dreams without really -resembling them. Lacking the power to seize the spirit in its flight, -the brain makes up stories for itself that keep it busy and deceive it -about the great fairyland, the inner drama. - -An immense liquid plain, a flooded valley brimming over, a shoreless -river of fire, water and clouds. All the elements were still mingled -there, a thousand currents as confused as hair on a head; but there was -a force that curled these long dark locks that were spangled with -gleaming lights. It was the countless-faceted Spirit and its troop of -dreams, led by the silent shepherd to the shadowy pastures of Hope: -Desire, the king of the worlds. A resistless gravitation drove them to -the greedy slope, now gentle, now abrupt, that drew them down. - -Annette felt the enchanted river flowing; she rolled and unrolled on her -distaff the skein of the entwined currents; she abandoned herself to it -and played with the feline force that carried her on. . . . But when the -reasoning powers were suddenly aroused and wished to control the play, -they found that Annette, torn from her dream, was merely seeking for -another that she might enter. So she soberly invented one out of the -elements of her disciplined days--her memories, figures from the past, -the romance of the life she had already lived or was still to live -perhaps. . . . And Annette tried to make herself believe that the great -dream was pursuing her. She knew it had fled, but she was not troubled. -Like the bridegroom in the Gospel, it would return at an hour that no -man knew. - -How many feminine souls there are whose hidden genius expresses itself -like hers in this inner stream! If one could read below the surface one -would often find there dark passions, ecstasies, visions of the abyss. -Yet all one sees is the correct middle-class woman, tranquilly going on -from day to day, attending to her affairs, coolly and sensibly, mistress -of herself and sometimes even, by reaction, assuming as Annette did -before her pupils and her son (though he was never deceived), an almost -excessive appearance of cold, moralistic reasonableness. - -No, she did not deceive the child. He had sharp eyes. He was able to -read between the lines. He too knew what dreams were. Every day he had -hours when he was like a king, entirely alone with his dreams, alone in -the apartment. Annette, who was always imprudent, carelessly left at the -disposal of the child a quantity of books, debris from the shipwreck of -her library and that of the grandfather. They were of every sort. For -several years she had not had the leisure to hunt through them. The -little boy took charge of that. Every day, on his return from school, -when his mother was not there, he would set out on the chase. He read at -haphazard. Quite early he had learned to read quickly, very quickly; he -galloped down the slope of the pages, pursuing his quarry. His -school-work suffered from this; he was classed as a poor, -scatter-brained student who never knew his lessons and skimped his -duties. The teacher would have been very much surprised if the little -poacher had recited what his eyes had caught in his game-preserve. He -had even caught the "classics" in his snare, and what a different scent -they had! Everything he gathered freely in this way, in the unknown, had -for him the taste of beautiful forbidden fruit. There was nothing that -could soil him yet in these encounters, nothing that could even -enlighten him too brutally. His eyes passed merrily round dangerous -corners without even seeing the carnal bait in the trap. But, happy and -carefree, he felt the breath of warm life in his face; in this forest of -books his nostrils caught the adventure and the eternal struggle of -love. - -Love, what is love for a child of ten? All the happiness one does not -possess, that one will possess--that one is going to seize. . . . What -will it look like? With a few scraps of what he has seen and heard, he -tries to construct its image. He sees nothing. He sees everything. He -desires everything. To possess everything. To love everything. (To be -loved! For him that is the real meaning of love. . . . "I love myself. I -must be loved. . . . But by whom?") His memories give him no aid. They -are too close for him to be able to see them well. At his age there is -no past, or so little of a past. The present is the theme with its -thousand variations. - -The present? The child lifts its eyes and sees its mother. About the -round table, under the warm light of the oil lamp, they are sitting -together. Evening, after dinner. Marc is studying--supposed to be -studying--his lessons for to-morrow; Annette is mending a dress. Neither -of them is thinking of what he is doing. They are trusting to their -machines, their willing servants. The dream rolls on. Annette follows -the current. The child observes her as she dreams. . . . That is a more -interesting spectacle than the lessons his lips are repeating. - -Marc seemed never to have noticed what was going on about him during -these years; he could not have explained any of his mother's -occupations. Yet nothing had escaped him. Julien's love. Her love for -Julien. He had been obscurely aware of it. And a jealousy of which he -was not conscious made him rejoice, like a little cannibal who dances -about the stake, in the disastrous climax. His mother remained his. His -property! Did he care so much about her? He had only appreciated her -when someone else had wanted her. He looked at her--those eyes, that -mouth, those hands. In the manner of children who lose themselves in a -detail as in a world--and they are not always wrong--he studied each of -her features. One shadow of an eyelid, the curling of a lip, are -mysterious and vast landscapes. They fascinate the mind of the child. -His glance hovered like a bee up and down the half-open mouth. . . . The -red door. . . . It plunged into the depths, it emerged again. Searching -so closely, he forgot what he was looking at, the woman herself. . . . -A stupor full of affection. . . . He roused himself to remember (ugh) -to-morrow's lesson, a boy he disliked, a bad mark he had hidden from his -mother. . . . And then his attention was caught again by the gleam of -the lamp in the shadow of the room, by the silence of the chamber amid -the rumbling of Paris--that sense of a little island, of a ship at sea, -and the expectation of shore, of what he was going to find, what he was -going to carry away on the ship that would be full of his treasures, his -hopes, the spoils of life he was going to capture. Among these he counted -his mother, her beautiful blond hair and her arched eyebrows. . . . The -little Viking! How much he suddenly loved her! With the ardor of -a lover, but one who had kept the gift of divine ignorance! And at -night, lying awake, he listened to her breathing. . . . All this -mysterious life troubled him, absorbed him. . . . - -So they both dreamed; but she was in mid-ocean and accustomed to the -long voyage. He was just setting out, and everything was a discovery for -him. And as everything was new to him, he saw with a keener eye, and -often he saw further. He had moments of astonishing seriousness. They -did not last. He was like an animal: suddenly this penetrating glance -would waver. He would not be there any more! But in the moments when he -fastened on his comrade-mother his young new force of attention and -love, shut up with her in a burning silence, his whole being was -impregnated with the odor of this soul: he divined without comprehending -them her faintest tremors, and he touched as if by lightning the secrets -of her heart. - -Soon he would lose the key. He would no longer be interested. He would -no longer be able to see. There were two beings in him: the light from -within and the shadow from without. As the body of the child develops, -the shadow increases with it and covers the light. As he climbs, he -turns his back on the sun; he seems most a child when he is least one; -and when he is grown-up, his view is more limited. For the moment Marc -still enjoyed a magic clairvoyance of which he was completely unaware. -Never had he been closer to Annette; not for many years would he be so -close again. - -Towards the end of this period the attraction she had for him became -stronger than his distrust. He no longer resisted the impulse that flung -him suddenly, face, eyes and mouth, against his mother's breast. Annette -discovered with rapture that her child loved her. She had given up hope -of this. - -Several months passed, as delicious as a mutual first love. The -honeymoon of the child and the mother. The ravishing purity of this -love, carnal as all love is, but carnal without sin. A living rose. - - - - -XXVIII - - -It passes. It passes, the matchless hour. They pass, these years of -close intimacy, severe discipline, a crowded life. These rich years. -Annette, with all her strength intact, unimpaired. The child with all -the flower of his little universe. - -But a mere vibration of the air will be enough to throw this harmony of -souls into confusion. Is the door shut? - - - - -XXIX - - -One Sunday morning Annette was at home alone. Marc was playing ball with -a friend in the Luxembourg Gardens. Annette was doing nothing; she -enjoyed being able to rest without talking, without moving, sitting in -her armchair on this day of rest; the flood of her thoughts followed its -meandering course. A little stiff with weariness, she let herself float -along. Someone knocked. She hesitated to open the door. Disturb this -hour of silence? . . . She did not move. The knock came again; there was -an insistent ring. She rose regretfully. She opened the door. . . . -Sylvie! For months they had not seen each other. . . . Annette's first -movement was one of joy, and Sylvie's face responded to her cordial -expression. Then the memory of their grievances, their strained -relations returned, and they were embarrassed. They exchanged polite -questions, asked about each other's health. They spoke to each other -without any formality, and in both their questions and their replies the -forms of their language were familiar, but their hearts remained cold. -Annette was thinking, "What has she come for?" And Sylvie, if she knew, -did not seem to be in any hurry to say. All the time, while speaking of -this and that, she showed that she was preoccupied with some thought she -was trying to defer, but which at last came out. "Annette," she said -suddenly, "let's put an end to this! There have been mistakes on both -sides." - -Annette, in her pride, would not admit that there were any on hers. -Strong, too strong, in her right, and not forgetting the injustice that -had been done her, she said, "There were none on my side." - -Sylvie did not like to go halfway and have no one come to meet her. In a -tone of vexation she said, "When you have made mistakes, you should at -least have the courage to recognize them." - -"I recognize yours," said Annette, obstinately. - -Sylvie was offended and she poured out all her old accumulated -reproaches. Annette replied haughtily. They were on the point of saying -the harshest things to each other. Sylvie impatiently rose to leave, but -she sat down again, saying, "Stupid thing! Nothing will ever make her -admit that she was wrong." - -"When it isn't true," said Annette, not budging an inch. - -"At least, for politeness' sake, don't make me the only one who has done -wrong!" - -They laughed. - -They looked at each other now with softened, twinkling eyes. Sylvie made -a wry face at Annette. Annette's eyes were full of amusement. But they -did not lay down their arms. - -"Vixen!" said Sylvie. - -"I don't admit it," said Annette. "It was you who--" - -"Well, let's not begin again. Listen, I am frank; wrong or right, I -would not have come back here just for myself. I can't forget either--" - -In spite of what she had just said, she had again begun to remember -jealously, half in fun, half seriously, with a mixture of bitterness and -humor, that Annette had tried to turn her husband's head. Annette -shrugged her shoulders. - -"Well," Sylvie ended by saying, "you may be sure that if it had been -only on my own account I should not have come!" - -Annette studied her curiously. Her sister said, "It was Odette who sent -me." - -"Odette?" - -"Yes. She asked why we never saw Aunt Annette any longer." - -"Really? She thought of me?" said Annette, astonished. "Who reminded her -of me?" - -"I don't know. She saw your photograph in my room. And then you must -have made an impression on her when she met you, I don't know where, on -the street, or in your house perhaps. . . . Intriguer! Looking as if you -weren't interested, with that secretive manner of yours! You know very -well you carry away people's hearts." - -(She was only half joking.) - -Annette remembered the tender little body she had caught up as she -passed, on that chance encounter, and lifted in her arms, the little -dewy mouth that clung to her cheek. - -"Well," Sylvie went on, "I told her that we had quarrelled. She asked -why. I told her to hold her tongue. This morning, in bed, when I came in -to kiss her, she said to me, 'Mamma, I wish you wouldn't be angry with -Aunt Annette.' I said, 'Let me alone.' But she was unhappy. So I kissed -her and said, 'Do you care as much as all that for your aunt? What -difference can it make to you? What an idea! Well, if you care so much -about it, I shan't be angry any more.' She clapped her hands and said, -When will she come?' 'When she wishes.' 'No, I want you to go straight -away now and tell her to come.' So I started out. The little wretch! She -does what she likes with me. . . . Now you must come. We are expecting -you for dinner." - -Annette, with lowered eyes, said neither yes nor no. Sylvie was -indignant: "I hope very much you won't have the heart to make me beg -you." - -"No," said Annette, lifting radiant eyes that were filled with tears. - -They kissed each other passionately, half lovingly, half angrily. Sylvie -bit Annette's ear. Annette cried out, "So you are biting now! Suppose it -were I whom you call crazy. But it's you. Are you angry?" - -"Yes, I am," said Sylvie. "How can you expect me not to hate you? You -steal from me everything I have, my husband, my daughter. . . ." - -Annette burst out laughing. "Keep your husband. He means nothing to me." - -"Nor to me either," said Sylvie. "But he is mine. I forbid anyone to -touch him." - -"Why not put a sign on him?" - -"You are the one I should like to put it on, you ugly old thing! . . . -What is it about you that attracts them? They all fall in love with -you." - -"Oh, no." - -"Yes, they do. All of them, Odette, that silly Leopold. . . . Other -people. . . . Everybody. . . . And I too! I detest you! I wish I could -get rid of you. But it can't be done. There's no way of shaking you -off!" - -They held each other's hands and laughed as they looked at each other, -this time as sisters. - -"You silly old thing!" - -"You don't realize what a true word that is!" - -It was a fact. They had both aged, and they both noticed it. Sylvie -stealthily exhibited a false tooth which she had had made without saying -anything about it. And Annette had a lock of white hair on her temple. -But she did not hide this. - -"You poseur!" said Sylvie. - -So they were on the best of terms again, just as in the old days. And to -think that without the little girl they would never have seen each other -again! - -That evening Annette, with Marc, went to dinner. Odette had hidden -herself: they could not find her. Annette set about looking for her; she -discovered her behind a big curtain. Stooping to pick her up, as she -crouched on her heels, calling her pet names, she held out her arms to -the child. The little girl turned her head to one side, unwilling to -look at her; then there was an explosion; she threw herself on Annette's -neck. At table, where she had the happiness to be placed beside her -aunt, she remained tongue-tied: she was overcome by what had happened. -At the very end she took an interest in the dessert. They drank to their -restored friendship, and as a joke Leopold offered a toast to the future -marriage of Marc and Odette. Marc was annoyed by this; his ambitions -were loftier. But Odette took it seriously. After dinner the two -children tried to play together, but they did not understand each other. -Marc was contemptuous, Odette was mortified. The parents, as they -talked, heard slaps and tears. They separated the combatants. Both were -sulking. Odette was unnerved by the emotions of the day. She had to go -to bed, and she crossly refused to do so. But Annette suggested carrying -her in her arms, and the child allowed herself to be taken. Annette -undressed her and put her in bed, kissing her plump little legs. Odette -was in ecstasy. Annette stayed by her till she was asleep--which was not -long. Then, finding Marc on Sylvie's knees, she said to her sister, "How -would you like to make an exchange of the children?" - -"All right!" said Sylvie. - -In the bottom of their hearts neither of them would have exchanged. Marc -might have suited Sylvie better, and Odette might have suited Annette. -But neither would have been "her own." - -The children were much more ready to accommodate themselves to an -exchange. They had heard it spoken of jokingly and they clamored for it. -To please them it was arranged. On Saturday evening the exchange took -place between the two mothers. Odette spent Saturday night and all day -Sunday at Annette's, and Marc at Sylvie's; on Sunday evening they were -restored to their rightful owners. In the interregnum they were -scandalously spoiled, and naturally enough they returned home grumbling. -Their tenderest affections they had reserved for the one who was not -their everyday mother. - -Odette enchanted Annette by her fondling ways, her little confidences, -her endless prattle. Annette had been deprived of this. Marc had the -passionate temperament of his mother, but he knew better how to repress -it; he did not like to surrender himself, especially to those who were -closest to him, for they abused his confidence. With strangers it was -less dangerous, for they misunderstood you anyway. Odette, like Sylvie, -had endearing, expansive ways, but she had a very loving heart; she said -out loud what Annette longed to hear. When the sly little creature -perceived this, she doubled the dose; she awakened the echo of what -Annette had thought as a child. At least, Annette imagined this, and she -loved her partly because of this suggestion. Listening to her, she -dreamed of her own early years which she unconsciously falsified, for -she threw into them the burning clearness of her thoughts of to-day. - -These blessed Sunday mornings! The little girl lay in the big bed. (It -was a holiday for her to spend the night nestling in the arms of her -aunt, who received the thumps from her feet without flinching and was -afraid to breathe lest she should awaken her.) She watched Annette -dressing; she chattered like a sparrow. She was sole mistress of the -bed, and, having affirmed her possession of it, she stretched across it -and carried on while her aunt's back was turned. But Annette, arranging -her hair before the mirror, laughed as she saw in its depths the little -bare legs in the air and the rough brown head on the pillow. This -attitude did not prevent Odette from following each of her gestures and -making comic observations on her toilet. Amid her prattle the child made -grave reflexions that were most unexpected and irrelevant and made -Annette prick up her ears: "What did you say? Say it again." - -She could not remember. . . . So she made up something else, not as good -as the first thing she had said. Or, more often, she was seized with a -sudden transport of affection. - -"Aunt Annette! Aunt Annette!" - -"Yes, what is it?" - -"I love you. . . . Heavens and earth, how I love you!" - -Annette laughed at the energy she put into it. - -"Impossible!" - -"Oh, I love you madly!" - -(For, sincere as she was, she was also a born actress.) - -"Nonsense! I like it better without the madness." - -"Aunt Annette, I want to hug you!" - -"Just a minute." - -"Right away. I want to. Come here, come here!" - -"Yes." - -She calmly finished combing her hair. - -Odette turned over in bed in a pet, throwing the bedclothes in all -directions. - -"Ah, that woman has no heart." - -Annette burst out laughing, dropped her comb, ran to the bed. - -"Little masquerader, where did you pick that up?" - -Odette hugged her furiously. - -"Come, come, you're suffocating me. See, you've pulled my hair down -again. I shall never manage to get dressed to-day. You monster, I don't -want to have anything more to do with you!" - -The little girl's voice became anxious; she was on the point of crying. - -"Aunt Annette! Love me! . . . I want you to love me! I implore you to -love me!" - -Annette pressed her in her arms. - -"Ah," said Odette, with a pathetic accent, "I would give my blood for -you!" (A phrase from some newspaper serial she had heard read in the -workroom.) - -When Marc was a witness of these effusions, he pouted disdainfully; and, -with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders raised, he marched off, -assuming a superior air. He despised this babbling, this feminine -sentimentality that poured everything out. As he declared to one of his -small friends, "These women are silly." - -At bottom, he was annoyed by the signs of affection that his mother -lavished on Odette. When he was the object of them, he repulsed them; -but it did not please him to have someone else get the benefit of them. - -Of course, he had his aunt, and with her he could take his revenge. In -fact, he did take it. To punish his mother's ingratitude he was ten -times more lovable with Sylvie than Annette had ever seen him. But it -must be admitted that, although Sylvie petted him, he was disappointed. -Sylvie treated him as a child, and he could not endure it. He did not -like her to imagine that she gave him pleasure by taking him every -Sunday to the cake-shop. He was certainly not indifferent to the cake, -but he did not like to have anyone insult him by believing that he -attached any importance to it. Besides, he felt too much that his aunt -regarded him as a personage of no importance: she was entirely -unreserved with him, and, while Marc's curiosity was satisfied, his -self-esteem was not. For he noticed the difference. It would have -pleased him if Sylvie had taken him into her private life, not as a boy, -but as a real man. In short, although he would not have admitted it to -himself, he lost his illusions when he saw Sylvie at close range. The -careless girl never suspected for a moment what was going on in the pure -and troubled brain of the ten-year-old boy, the fabulous image he had -manufactured of woman, and the shock of his first discoveries. Sylvie -took no more account of her acts and her talk in his presence than she -would have done before some pet animal. (We have no evidence, after all, -that a pet animal is not often shocked.) Through an instinct of defence -against the disillusionments which the damaging of his idol caused him, -there unfortunately developed in him certain precocious ideas that were -quite naïvely cynical, ideas upon which it is better not to dwell. He -tried to appear (in his own eyes; for the present he did not think of -appearing so in the eyes of others) a blasé man. But with all the blind -senses of an eager and innocent child, he uneasily breathed in the -enigmatical charm, the animality, of the feminine being. He felt for -woman a disgusted attraction. - -Attraction. Repulsion. Every real man knows them. At this period of life -the dominating sentiment of the two in Marc was repulsion. But even this -repulsion had a sharp savor that made the other sentiments and the -children of his own age seem tasteless to him. He despised Odette and -regarded this little girl as beneath his dignity. - -She was a very little girl in reality, and yet, strangely, a woman. In -spite of the theories of those illustrious pedagogues who divide -childhood into chambered compartments, one for each faculty, everything -already exists in the young child from its earliest infancy, everything -that one is and will be, the double Being of the present and the future -(to say nothing of the immense, impenetrable past that determines both). -Only, to catch a glimpse of it, one must have one's eye open. In the -half-light of dawn it appears only in gleams. - -These gleams were more frequent in Odette than in most children. A -precocious fruit. Very healthy physically, she carried within her a -little world of passions that were too great for her. Whence had they -come? From some region that lay behind Annette and Sylvie? Annette was -reminded of herself at Odette's age. But she was mistaken; she had been -much less precocious; and when, observing Odette, she recalled the -forgotten passions of her own childhood, she antedated, in all good -faith, the feelings that belonged to her fourteenth and fifteenth years. - -Odette was an aviary, filled with a sound of restless wings. Little -invisible loves passed through her; their flight left lights and shadows -behind it. She was placid and hysterical by turns; without any reason -she would begin to sob, then burst out laughing; then she would have a -feeling of lassitude, of indifference to everything; then again, no one -knew why, at a word, at a gesture, interpreted to suit herself, she -would be happy again, so happy! . . . Overwhelmed with happiness, drunk -with it, like a thrush that is gorged with grapes, she would talk, she -would talk. And then, in the twinkling of an eye, she would vanish; no -one knew what had become of her; they would find her again in a corner -of the store-room, hiding, enjoying the inexplicable happiness she -hardly understood herself. This flock of birds came and went in her -soul; they succeeded one another in a flash. - -One never knows how far children are entirely sincere in their emotions: -as they come to them from far away, much further back than themselves, -they are at first astonished to witness them, and they become actors who -play with them experimentally. This power of unconsciously dividing -their emotions is an intuitive process of self-preservation, permitting -them to carry a burden which, without this, would crush their frail -shoulders. - -Odette felt, for this person or that, and sometimes for nobody, -transports of passion to which she spontaneously gave a theatrical -expression, not always out loud, but in a whispered monologue for her -own relief; in simulating the feeling she deadened the shock. These -impulses were directed most frequently towards Annette or Marc--towards -the two together; and she often said Annette when she meant Marc, -because Marc made fun of her, Marc despised her, and she hated him. Then -she would have a paroxysm of humiliated and jealous suffering, a desire -for vengeance. . . . Why? What harm could she do him? The worst harm of -all. How could she reach him? . . . Alas, she had only the claws of a -child. It was exasperating. Since she could do nothing (for the moment) -she would pretend to be indifferent. But it was hard to be able to do -nothing; and it was hard also to be indifferent when one always had a -desire to laugh or weep. Such a constraint was against nature: Odette -was in despair over it. She was prostrated till suddenly a peremptory -reawakening of her childish gaiety and the need of movement threw her -back again into her play. - -Annette watched, divined, sometimes imagined, these miniature despairs, -and she pityingly remembered her own. How she too had consumed herself -with the fever of loving, desiring, tormenting herself, and for whom, -for what? What purpose could this all serve? It was so out of proportion -with the object, which was limited by the nature of things! What a -squanderer of energy! And what a force of love she spent at random! Some -people had too much, others not enough. Annette, like Odette, was one of -those who had too much, and her son was one of those who did not have -enough. He was the lucky one, poor little fellow! - -He was not so poor! The life of his affections was not less rich than -Odette's, nor were the struggles of his mind less lively--though he said -nothing about them. Nor were his feelings less violent, though their -ardor tended in another direction. Yes, he was indifferent to the things -that occupied these women. His spirit was agitated, however, by very -different passions. Intellectually richer and much less absorbed by the -more backward life of his senses, this little man, who felt the obscure -flood of desire rising in him, was turning his energies, like a true -man, towards action and domination. He dreamed of conquests beside which -that of a feminine heart would have seemed to him very paltry--if at -this time of his childhood he had thought of such a thing. The boys of -the preceding generations had dreamed of soldiers, savages, pirates, -Napoleon, adventures on the sea. Marc dreamed of aeroplanes, automobiles -and wireless. About him the thought of the world danced a giddy round; a -delirious movement made the planet vibrate; everything was running and -flying, cleaving the air and the waters, revolving, whirling. A magic of -mad invention was transmuting the elements. No more limits to power; -consequently, no more to the will. Space and time--pass the juggler's -ball!--were volatilized, spirited away by the swiftness of things. They -did not count any more. And men still less. What counted was will, -limitless will. Marc scarcely knew the rudiments of modern science. He -read, without understanding it, a scientific review to which his mother -subscribed; but without realizing it he had been bathed from his birth -in the miracles of science. Annette did not perceive this, for she had -learned science in the scholastic way; she had not breathed it in as a -living thing. She saw the figures written in chalk and the numbers on -the blackboard, the arguments. Marc's imagination was filled with -fabulous forces. Just because he was not embarrassed by his reason he -was carried away by a poetic enthusiasm as vague and ardent as that -which filled the sails of the Argonauts. He dreamed of extraordinary -exploits: piercing the globe with a tunnel from one side to the other, -rising without motor-power into the air, connecting Mars with the earth, -pressing a button and jumping over to Germany--or some other country (he -had no particular preference). With such mysterious words as volts, -amperes, radium, carburator, which he used at random, very coolly, he -conjured up the tales of the Thousand and One Nights. How the devil -could his mind stoop from such a height to a silly little girl? - -But body and mind are twin brothers that do not keep step. In their -double growth there is always one of the two--it is not always the same -one--that loiters on the road while the other gallops on ahead. Marc's -body remained that of a child; and while the spirit roamed about aloft a -cord held him by the foot and brought him down again where it was -pleasant to amuse himself. Then, for want of anything better, he would -condescend to play--he would even play with his whole heart, without -condescension, with the silly little girl. These were happy interludes. - -They did not last long. There were too many inequalities between the two -children, not only in their age, nor because she was a girl. Their -temperaments were too different. Odette, who was not pretty, and rather -suggested her father, though she had Annette's eyes and a chubby, -well-rounded figure, with her flattish nose, was a robust, healthy child -whose warmth of feeling did not disturb her physical equilibrium but -seemed the natural overflow of an abounding vitality. She had escaped -all the little ailments of childhood. Marc, on the contrary, had been -stamped by the illness of his first year; and although later the -soundness of his constitution was to come out on top, this struggle of -the organism, in which he was often beaten, had spoiled part of his -childhood. He had remained susceptible to the least chill and was often -checked by slight returns of bronchitis or fever. His self-respect -suffered from this, for all his instincts were those of pride and -strength. - -Towards the end of 1911, one year after the reconciliation of the two -sisters, Marc had one of those winter illnesses, complicated by -influenza, that caused a passing anxiety. Odette went to see him when he -was in bed. She had been forbidden to do so for fear of infection, but -she had found a way of slipping into the room one evening when the two -mothers were busy in the next room. She was full of sympathy, and Marc, -who was a little feverish, let himself go as he had never done before. -He was restless. - -"What are they saying, Odette?" (He imagined they were hiding from him -the gravity of his illness.) - -"I don't know. They don't say anything." - -"What does the doctor say?" - -"He says it isn't anything." - -He was somewhat relieved, but he was still suspicious. - -"Is that true? No, it isn't true. They're concealing it from me. . . . I -know very well what I've got." - -"What have you got?" - -He was silent. - -"Marc, what have you got?" - -He retreated into a proud and hostile silence. Odette was in agony. She -ended by believing that he was very ill, and her anxiety communicated -itself to him. With that passionate exaggeration of hers which assumed -melodramatic forms she clasped her hands. - -"Oh, Marc, I implore you, don't be so ill. I don't want you to die." - -Nor had he the least desire to do so. He liked to be condoled with, but -he had not wanted as much as all this! Hearing uttered what he feared -himself, he was frozen with fright. He did not want to show this, but he -did show it. - -"You see, you're hiding it from me. You know. I am very ill." - -"No, no, I don't want it to be so. I don't know. I don't want you to be -very ill. . . . Oh, Marc, don't die! If you die, I want to die with -you!" - -She flung herself on his neck, weeping. He was very much moved, and he -too wept; he did not know whether it was because of her or himself. At -the sound the mothers ran in scolding and separating them. They felt -very close together at that moment. - -By the following morning, however, Marc had thought things over. He was -no longer anxious; he was even annoyed--for to drive away his fears -they had made fun of him--to have shown himself a coward; he blamed -Odette for having led him, by her stupid anxiety, into betraying these -signs of weakness. And then he heard her laughing and saw her passing -his door, overflowing with health. He was angry with her because of this -health. She had too much of it. He envied her and he was humiliated. - -After he was well again, he continued for a long time to feel mortified -for having betrayed himself before his cousin's eyes. He was the more so -because he had really been afraid and she had seen it. Once her emotion -had passed, Odette maliciously remembered it all. She had seen him off -his high horse, a timid little boy. She only liked him better for this. -But he could not forgive her. - - - - -XXX - - -Marc was well again. Odette was flourishing. The previous summer she had -proudly made her first communion. (It was about this date that the -Church, like Joconda in search of innocence, had sniffed with its great -distrustful nose the air of the time and made up its mind that there was -no such thing as real innocence after the age of seven.) Odette -considered herself a woman and tried to appear one by toning down her -impetuosity, the impetuosity of a young tethered goat--though at any -moment, with a caper, the little horned creature would escape from one's -hands. . . . Sylvie was happy; her business was going well. And Annette, -who found in her sister's household nourishment for the need of -affection which her age and her ordeal had somewhat tempered, seemed to -have reached a haven of peace. Everything was hopeful. - -One warm afternoon, between three and four o'clock, at the end of -October, one of those radiant days when the unveiled light seems as -naked as the stripped trees, the windows were open to let in the rays of -an autumn sun as mild and golden as honey. It was the day after Odette's -eighth birthday. Annette was at Sylvie's. In the room over the court, -they were looking out together and examining materials, gossiping and -gravely occupied with their investigation. Odette was on the other side -of the passage, in the room at the end that overlooked the street. Just -a few minutes before, the inquisitive child had peeped through the -half-open door to see what they were doing. They had pretended to scold -her and had sent her back again to finish a little piece of work before -they all had tea together. Marc was at school; they were expecting him -home again in half an hour. - -The moments were flowing along smoothly, without a ripple, without a -wave, unhastingly, as if they were to flow this way for the rest of -their lives. They felt so calm that they did not even think of enjoying -it. It was natural! In the ivy on the wall of the court the happy -sparrows were chirping. The last flies of autumn were humming their -content, warming their torpid wings in the lingering rays of -sunlight. . . . - -They heard nothing, nothing. Yet they both became silent at the same -moment, as if the fragile thread on which their happiness was suspended -had broken. - -There was a ring at the door. - -"Marc, so soon? No, it's too soon." - -A ring. Someone was knocking again. What a hurry some people are in! -We're coming! - -Sylvie went and opened the door, and Annette followed her a few steps -behind. - -At the door the concierge, out of breath, was shouting and waving her -arms. At first they did not understand. - -"Madame doesn't know . . . the terrible thing that's happened. The -little girl . . ." - -"Who?" - -"Mademoiselle Odette. . . . That poor little darling." - -"What? What?" - -"She's fallen." - -"Fallen!" - -"She's down below." - -Sylvie screamed. She pushed the concierge aside and dashed downstairs. -Annette would have followed her, but her legs failed her; she had to -wait till her heart would allow her to walk. She was still upstairs, -leaning over the baluster, when from the street the wild cries of Sylvie -came to her. - -What had happened? Probably Odette, who did not like to work and was -dawdling and rummaging about, had leaned out of the window to see if -Marc was coming and had fallen. The poor little thing had not even had -the time to understand. . . . When Annette, tottering, at last reached -the street, she saw a great crowd gathered. Sylvie, like a madwoman, was -holding in her arms the little broken body, with its legs and head -hanging like a slaughtered lamb. The brown hair veiled the fractured -skull; nothing was to be seen but a little blood at the nose. The eyes -were still open and seemed to be asking. Death had replied. - -Annette would have thrown herself on the ground, screaming with horror, -if Sylvie's wild fury had not absorbed all the misery of the world. She -had fallen on her knees on the sidewalk, almost lying on the child, whom -she lifted up and shook with mad cries. She called to her, she called to -her, she denounced . . . Whom? What? Heaven, the earth. . . . She was -foaming with despair and hatred. - -For the first time Annette saw in her sister the frantic passions that -Sylvie bore without knowing it in the depths of her nature, passions -that her life till then had spared her from expressing. And she -recognized them as those of her own blood. - -The wildness of this grief prevented her from yielding to her own. She -was obliged, by reaction, to remain strong and calm, and she did so. She -took Sylvie by the shoulders. The screaming woman struggled with her; -but Annette, leaning over her, lifted her up; and Sylvie, submitting to -this commanding gentleness, became silent, raised her head, saw the -circle about her, threw a fierce glance towards it and, with the child -in her arms, reentered the house without a word. - -She had crossed the threshold. Annette was going in after her when she -saw Marc at the corner of the street on his way home; and, in spite of -her lacerated love for the poor little girl, her heart bounded in her -breast. What a joy that it wasn't he! - -She ran to Marc to prevent him from seeing. At her first words, Marc -turned pale and clenched his teeth. She led him away from the scene; she -told him that Odette was seriously hurt. But he, with the distrustful -intuition of a child, knew that she was dead; and with his clenched -fists he tried to drive the terrible thought away. In spite of his -agitation, he was still thinking of himself, his own attitude and the -people who were passing. He noticed that his mother was walking -bareheaded beside him in the street and that people were looking at -them, and this embarrassed him. His annoyance contributed to calm him. -When they had gone halfway, Annette, seeing that he was steadier, told -him to go home alone. She returned hastily to Sylvie. She found her -prostrated, sitting in a state of collapse in a corner, near the bed of -the little dead girl, unable to hear or understand, breathing noisily -like a wounded animal. Her workers were busy with the child. Annette -bathed the little body, dressed it again in white linen, laid it back in -the bed, just as on those faraway evenings--yesterday--eternally far -away, when she had listened to the whispered confidences of the child. -When this was finished, she went over to Sylvie and took her hand. Moist -and cold, the hand lay limply in hers. Annette pressed these fingers -from which the life seemed to have withdrawn, but she did not have the -courage to whisper a tender word, for it could not have penetrated -through the wall of despair. Nothing but the sisterly contact of their -bodies could make her pity slowly find its way through. She wrapped her -arms about her, her forehead resting on Sylvie's cheek; and her tears -dropped on her sister's neck as if to melt the ice that enveloped her -heart. Sylvie was mute and did not stir; but her fingers were feebly -beginning to respond to the sisterly hand when her husband arrived. -Annette went away. - -She returned to Marc and told him the truth. It was not news to him. He -did not seem very much moved; he was afraid of his emotion and was -anxious to keep his air of assurance. He should not have been obliged to -speak, for as soon as he opened his mouth his voice began to tremble; he -ran and hid himself in his room to cry. Annette perceived with a -mother's insight the anguish of this childish heart in its first -encounter with death, and she avoided speaking of the redoubtable -subject; but she took him on her knees as she had done when he was a -baby. And he, with no thought of complaining at being treated as a baby, -took refuge in the warmth of her breast. After they had calmed each -other, lulling their fear to sleep and feeling that there were two of -them to protect each other, she put him to bed and begged him to be a -brave little man, not to be frightened if she had to go out and leave -him alone for a part of the night. He understood and promised. - -She set out through the dark for the house of tragedy. She wanted to -watch by the dead child. Sylvie had emerged from her dejected -insensibility. She had not returned to her first furious despair, but -the spectacle was not less painful. Her mind was a little unbalanced. -Annette saw a smile on her lips. Sylvie raised her eyes as she heard her -coming in, looked at her, went to her and said, "She is sleeping." - -She took her hand and drew her over to the bed. "See how beautiful she -is!" - -Her face lighted up, but Annette saw a shadow of anxiety passing over -her brow; and when, after a moment, Sylvie repeated in an undertone, -"She is sleeping well, isn't she?" Annette met the feverish glance that -was waiting for her to say, "She is sleeping. Yes." She said it. - -They went and sat down in the adjoining room. The husband was there with -one of the workers. They forced themselves to talk in order to occupy -their attention. But Sylvie's wounded mind was running away from itself, -leaping from one subject to another, without stopping. She had taken up -some work which at every moment she threw down again; she took it up and -threw it down to listen for sounds from the sleeper's room. Again she -said, "How she sleeps!"--her eye wandering over the others in order to -convince them, to convince herself. Once she returned to the little bed, -and, leaning over the child, uttered endearing words to it. This was -cruel for Annette. She wished Sylvie would be silent. Leopold, in a low -voice, implored her not to disturb the illusion. - -The illusion fell of itself. Sylvie, coming back to her place, took up -her work and did not speak again. The others were talking around her, -but she no longer heard them. They in turn became silent. A sombre hush -hovered over them. Suddenly Sylvie cried out. Without words. A long cry. -Throwing herself down on the table, she struck her head against it. -Hurriedly they removed the needles and the scissors. When her speech -came back to her, it was to curse God: she did not believe in Him, but -she had to have someone against whom to avenge herself! Her eyes blazed, -and she hurled vulgar oaths at him. - -Exhaustion followed. They carried her to bed. She did not stir again. -Annette remained beside her until she was unconscious. - -Then she went home again, utterly worn out. The streets were pale with -early dawn. Marc had not slept. She lay down shivering. But just as she -was about to get into bed--it was too much, all she had suffered and had -to repress during the last twelve hours!--she ran in her nightgown and -bare feet into her son's room and passionately kissed his mouth, his -eyes, his ears, his neck, his arms, his hands. "My dear, my dear little -boy," she said. "You, you are not going to leave me?" - -He was very much upset, disturbed, frightened. He wept with her, more -for himself than for the others, though he wept for the others too. He -realized now what he had lost; he wept over the affection he had never -desired. He remembered the evening when he had been ill and Odette had -come in to see him. He was stricken with affection and sorrow. But he -thought, "I'm still alive anyway!" - -Annette trembled at the thought of beginning another day like the last. -Her strength was not equal to it. But the day that followed did not have -the terrifying violence of the previous hours. Human suffering, when it -reaches its zenith, must descend again. One dies or becomes used to it. - -Sylvie had recovered her self-possession. She was livid, with hard lines -about her nostrils and lips which later, as they grew fainter, left -scars behind. But she was calm, active, busy, with her workers, cutting -and sewing her mourning clothes. She gave orders, oversaw things, -worked; and her hands, like her expression, were sure and precise. She -fitted Annette's dress. Annette was afraid to utter a word that would -recall the funeral. But Sylvie spoke of it coldly. She would not leave -the details to anyone else. She decided everything. She preserved her -unnatural calm to the very end of the ceremony, but with a cold and -concentrated rage she had set herself against any religious service. She -could not forgive! . . . Till then she had been vaguely sceptical, -indifferent, not hostile; and while she laughed at it a little, she had -been moved without confessing it on the day when she had seen her -beautiful little girl dressed in white for her first communion. . . . -Exactly! She had been tricked. . . . That dastardly God! She could never -forgive him. - -Annette was expecting that the inhuman constraint which Sylvie had -imposed upon herself would be paid for by a fresh crisis when they -returned to the house. But she was not allowed to stay with her sister. -Sylvie harshly forbade it. Annette's presence was intolerable to -her. . . . Annette had her son! - -On the following day the anxious husband came to tell Annette that -Sylvie had not gone to bed. She had not wept, she had not groaned, she -was eating her heart out in silence. She had relentlessly resumed her -work in the shop, a mechanical duty that was more imperative than life. -No one would have perceived her state of mind except for certain -accidents, errors that had never happened before. She cut a gown wrongly -and afterwards destroyed it without a word, and she hurt her fingers -with her scissors. They induced her to go to bed at night, but she -remained sitting upright without sleeping, and she did not reply when -they spoke to her. And every morning, before appearing in the workroom, -she made a visit to the cemetery. - -This went on for fifteen days. Then, in the middle of the afternoon, she -disappeared. Customers came in and waited. At supper-time she had not -returned. Ten, eleven o'clock passed. Her husband feared that something -desperate had happened. Towards one o'clock she came in, and that night -she slept. No one could find out anything from her. But the next evening -she vanished again, and on the two following days she did the same -thing. She talked now; she seemed to have relaxed. But she did not say -where she had gone. The workers gossiped. Her good husband shrugged his -shoulders with pity and said to Annette, "If she is deceiving me I can't -be angry with her. She has suffered too much. . . . And besides, if it -can only save her from her obsession, well, all right!" - -Annette succeeded in catching Sylvie as she was going out, and she -tactfully made her understand the anxiety, the suspicion, the pain, -which her wanderings caused. Sylvie, who did not want to be stopped at -first, seemed to be indifferent to what people might think, but she was -touched by her husband's kindness; and, as if she felt a sudden need of -unbosoming herself, she led Annette into her room and shut the door. She -sat down close beside her and in a low, mysterious voice, with shining -eyes, confessed that she went every evening to a circle of initiates who -gathered about a table in order to talk with her little girl. Annette -listened, horrified, without daring to betray her feelings, while -Sylvie, in a soft voice, recounted the child's replies. There was no -longer any need to urge her to talk; she delighted in the joy of -repeating to herself out loud the puerile words into which she had -transfused all the blood of her heart. Annette could not destroy an -illusion that gave her sister life. Leopold was ready to encourage her: -for his sound common sense this was as good as any other religion. -Annette asked the advice of the doctor, who told her to let the sorrow -wear itself out. - -Sylvie was radiant now. Annette asked herself if she would not have -preferred a noble despair to this preposterous joy that profaned death. -In the workroom Sylvie no longer concealed her relations with the world -beyond the grave; the workers made her describe the séances; it gave -them all the shivering pleasure of a popular novel. When Annette came -in, she heard them mingling their lively reflexions with the account of -the last conversation Sylvie had had with Odette; one apprentice was -laughing at it behind the material she was folding up; and Sylvie, so -lately an expert in the handling of irony, saw nothing as she babbled -away, absorbed in her phantasmagory. - -She did not stop there. One evening, without saying anything to Annette, -she took Marc with her. She had come to feel once more an exalted -affection for him. The moment she saw him her face lighted up. Annette, -not finding Marc in the house, guessed what had happened. But she took -care not to make him tell her about it when he came in, very late, -depressed and unnerved. The child cried in his dreams. Annette lifted -him up, calmed him, stroked his head with her tender hands. - -In the morning she severely demanded an explanation from Sylvie. Her son -was involved, and she spoke directly to the point. This time she did not -conceal her disgust and aversion for these dangerous follies, and she -angrily forbade her sister to mix the little boy up in them. Sylvie, -who, at other times, would have replied in the same tone, bowed her head -with an equivocal smile, avoiding Annette's furious look; she did not -feel instinctively sure enough of her revelations to expose them to her -sister's passionate criticism. She would discuss nothing, she promised -nothing; she had a sly, wheedling manner, like that of a scolded cat -that still means to do just what it chooses. - -She did not venture, however, to carry Marc off again. But she did -confide to him what she had heard in her séances; and it was very -difficult to prevent their meetings, which Marc distrustfully kept as -secret as his aunt. Sylvie told Marc that Odette spoke of him. It was -this that bound her to the young boy: Odette had bequeathed him to her. -She transmitted messages between the two children. Marc did not really -believe in all this; the critical sense of his grandfather defended him -against these absurdities, but his imagination was stirred. He listened, -interested, repelled. Even while he lent himself to this unwholesome -game, he condemned Sylvie severely; and he extended his condemnation to -women in general. But this atmosphere of the grave was poisonous for a -boy of his age. The horrible buffoonery of life and death gave him a -precocious, haunting obsession. He felt surrounded by an odor of decayed -flesh. He had moments of suffocation; and, as his mind was not yet -strong enough to defend him, his feverish, preadolescent vitality -reacted by taking refuge in his troubled instincts, which roved about -like animals in the night. A redoubtable flock they were! It seems as -if, by a sort of embryogenesis, the psychic organism passes in its -evolution through the whole series of animal forms--has to pass through -the most bestial stages before it reaches the point where they can be -sublimated by intelligence and human will. Fortunately, this return to -our savage origins is brief; it is a procession of spectres, and the -best thing is to stand aside and let them pass as quickly as possible, -doing nothing to arouse their shadowy consciousness. But this hour is -not without its dangers, and the most loving watchfulness cannot protect -the child from them. For this little Macbeth is the only one who sees -the spectres. For the others, those who are closest to him, Banquo's -seat remains empty; they perceive the fresh voice, the pure features of -the child, but they do not see the formidable shadows that pass in the -depths of its limpid eyes. The curious spectator himself hardly sees -them. How can he recognize them, since they issue from a world in which -he was not born, these instincts of possession, violence and even crime? -There is no perverse thought that he does not touch, that he does not -taste with the tip of his tongue. Neither of the two women who petted -Marc dreamed what a little monster it was they held so close to them. - -Little by little Sylvie grew calm. The accounts of her séances ceased -to have a mysterious character; she spoke of them unfeelingly, -hurriedly. She did not care to dwell on them. Soon she even ceased to -mention them except with a certain constraint. And suddenly she stopped -speaking of them altogether; she no longer replied to questions. Had she -met with some disillusionment she did not wish to acknowledge? Or was -she tired of them? She told no one. But in the long conversations she -continued to have with Marc the occult world held less and less of a -place, and it ended by disappearing. She seemed to have recovered her -equilibrium. The passing of the ordeal was only evident to those about -her by the appearance of a slight change in her age, an expression that -was not more refined through suffering, but rather more material, by -features that were a little heavier and a somewhat fuller figure. She -still had the same grace, and she was brighter than ever. The powerful -need to live avenges itself for the agony that has been endured. And new -pains and new pleasures, the leaves of the falling days, the dust of the -road, little by little covered the grave in her heart. - - - - -XXXI - - -A deceptive appearance. - -Life began again in the Rivière household. But the catastrophe had made -a breach in their souls. - -The disappearance of a child is a very small event in the general order -of things. We are surrounded by death; it should never surprise us. From -the moment when we begin to look about us, we see it at work and grow -accustomed to it. We think we grow accustomed to it. We know that some -day it will come and work its will in our own homes, and we foresee our -misery. But there is so much more than misery! Let each one look into -his own heart! There are few who will not recognize the revolution that -a death has produced in their whole existence. It marks a change of -eras . . . _Ante, Post Mortem_. . . . A being has disappeared. Life -in its entirety is affected, a whole kingdom of beings, yesterday the -kingdom of the day and to-day that of the shadow. If this little stone, -this one stone, falls from the vault, the whole vault falls. Nothingness -has no measure. If this little I is nothing, no I is anything. What I love -is nothing; I who love am nothing. For I only exist because I love. The -unreality of everything that breathes becomes suddenly apparent. And -everyone is aware of this, though not in the same fashion, everyone, -with all his organs, his instinct, his intelligence, whether he faces it -directly or averts his eyes and flees from it. - -On the family tree from which the little branch of Odette had been -broken off the other branches continued to grow. But the development of -three at least of the four was altered. - -The least affected was the father. On the day of the funeral his grief -was painful; his throat and his chest panted like those of a fallen -horse. But a fortnight later he was already caught up again by his -business and the powerful demands of his physical life; he was working, -eating twice as much as ever, travelling, forgetting. - -Of the two women Annette seemed to be the real mother. She could not be -consoled. Her grief became all the more bitter the more the traces of -the little girl were obliterated. Odette for her was like a chosen -child, a child created not of her flesh, but of her need of affection, -more hers than Sylvie's, more hers than her son. She accused herself of -not having loved her enough, of having begrudged the caresses of which -this eager little heart had never had enough. And she persuaded herself -that she alone preserved the memory of the child to which the others -were false. - -Sylvie exhibited now a strange, busy, agitated gaiety. She talked in a -high voice, with a wearisome flow of words, flashes of jocularity, harsh -tittle-tattle that made her little group of workers burst out laughing. -Marc quietly drank it all in when he happened to be there and heard it -flying about him. He too had relaxed; he was working less, loafing, -running about the streets, always looking for opportunities to do -nothing and laugh. His organism was shielding itself against the terror -within. . . . What outsider could have suspected it? We are impenetrable -to one another; we seem indifferent; we want to unbosom ourselves and we -cannot do so. . . . "There is no communion possible in suffering." - -But Annette, whose intense devotion to the dead child made her unjust to -the living, saw only their egoism. In every way it was trying to return -to life and let the stone of memory drop to the bottom; and she was -angry with them. - -One day, however, one Sunday when Marc had gone out with Leopold to a -ball-game, Annette, arriving at Sylvie's, found the door of the -apartment open. She went in and heard a long, heavy groan. Sylvie, alone -in her closed room, was talking and moaning. Annette withdrew on tiptoe; -she reclosed the door on the landing and rang. Sylvie came and opened -it; her eyes were red; she said it was a cold and talked with a noisy, -rather vulgar animation. She began to tell one of those eternal indecent -stories of which she seemed to have an endless supply. Annette's heart -sank. Was it possible she was pretending? She was only half pretending. -It was herself, far more than others, whom she wished to deceive. An -utter despair, without a gleam or an outlet, had brought her to a sort -of jocose contempt for life. If she did not want to die, there was no -other alternative but forgetfulness and this mask of careless cynicism -which had ended by replacing the features of the true face. Nothing -meant anything. Nothing was worth the trouble. Propriety, honor, were -all humbug! Nothing was worth taking seriously. Laugh at life! Enjoy -yourself! Work alone continued to exist, for work was a necessity, and -one couldn't get along without it. - -Many other things continued to exist beneath all this devastation. -Instinct in Sylvie was sounder than thought, and when she threw away -everything else Annette and her son remained in her flesh and blood. -They were only one person, these three! But this instinctive, almost -material, love did not prevent her from cherishing bad feeling. Sylvie -had no more tenderness for Annette than she had for herself. She was -aggressive and full of mockery in her attitude to her sister, whose -earnestness and silent sadness, heavy with memories, irritated her like -an unspoken reproach. - -A reproach indeed. Annette did not have the charity to spare her. She -saw clearly, however, that Sylvie was fleeing from her misery as a -hunted animal flees from a dog, and she pitied her. She pitied the -misery of human nature, but she despised it for seeking safety at the -expense of its dearest treasures, for being always ready to betray its -sacred affections in order to elude the savage pursuit of suffering. She -was embittered by this; for in her own heart she heard the call of this -cowardice in the presence of life, and she scourged it. - -Consequently, during these months that followed the disaster, she -imposed upon herself an austere discipline of the heart, a proud, -pessimistic restraint that concealed her wounded love. - - -After the dark winter Easter had come. That Sunday morning Annette was -wandering about Paris. The sky had blossomed again; the air was -motionless. With her soul wrapped in its mourning, she heard the -nostalgic calls of the church-bells; and their sonorous net caught her -up in its meshes, drew her outside the flood of this indifferent age to -the beach where the dead God lay. She entered a church. She had scarcely -taken two or three steps before she was stifled by her tears; she had -repressed them so long, and they were flowing again. On her knees, with -bowed head, in a corner of a chapel, she let them flow. Never had she -felt as now the tragedy of this day. She listened to the organ, to the -hymns, the hymns of joy. . . . Joy! . . . Sylvie's laughter, with her -soul weeping in its depths. . . . Ah, she realized it so clearly to-day: -there was no resurrection for the poor dead! And the despairing love -for one's own, that age-old love, wearing itself out denying their -death. . . . How much more grand and religious this poignant verity was -than an illusory resurrection! That passionate self-deception, that -heart-breaking self-deception, which could not consent to losing one's -beloved ones. - -She could not share her thoughts with anyone. Shut up in herself, with -the little dead girl, she defended her against the second, the most -terrible, of deaths, oblivion. She reacted harshly against herself and -against the others. And as every reaction against a way of thinking -leads by its recoil to a contrary reaction, her attitude of reproach -provoked those who felt themselves hurt by it to exaggerate their own. -And the breach widened. - -It became almost complete between the mother and the son. Marc grew -further and further away from Annette. For years the antagonism had been -growing more evident, but until these latter days it had remained, on -the child's side, veiled, hidden, cautious. During the long period when -he had lived so intimately with Annette, he had been very careful not to -fall into any argument with her; he would have been no match for her, -and above everything else he wanted peace. He let his mother talk. Thus, -one by one, she revealed her weaknesses to him, while he revealed -nothing. But now that he had found an ally in his aunt, he no longer -concealed his hand. How many times in the past his mother, losing -patience with this little mollusc, who drew his mind back into his shell -when she wanted to reach it, had said to him, "Come out of your hole! -Let's have a glimpse of your head. Don't you know how to talk?" - -He knew, Annette could have her satisfaction. He talked now. . . . It -would have been better if he had continued to be silent! . . . What a -little wrangler! Ah, he no longer hesitated to contradict her. He -allowed nothing to pass from his mother's mouth without obstinately -cavilling at it. And in what an impertinent tone! - -This had happened all of a sudden; and no doubt Sylvie, by maliciously -encouraging this warfare, was partly responsible for it. But the real -cause lay deeper. This change of attitude corresponded with a change of -nature, for the crisis of puberty was approaching. The child was -transformed. In a few months he had assumed another character, and his -rude and crotchety ways were interspersed with returns of his old -taciturnity. There was nothing left of the polite, conciliatory, rather -crafty silence of the child who wanted to give pleasure; one felt now -something hostile and bristling in him. . . . His brusque, off-hand -manner, his flagrant impoliteness, the inexplicable harshness with which -he responded to affectionate advances, made Annette's sensibility bleed. -Sufficiently armed against the world, she was not at all so against -those whom she loved; a single rude word from her son wounded her to -tears. She did not show this, but he was not unaware of it. He went on; -he seemed to be seeking for things that might be unpleasant to his -mother. - -He would have been ashamed to behave so with people for whom he cared -nothing. But to her he was certainly not indifferent. He clung to her. -How? Like the living fruit which, when the hour has come, breaks away -from the mother's womb. He was made of her flesh, and to make this flesh -his own he tore it. - -Marc had many elements that belonged by nature to another race than his -mother's. But, strangely enough, it was not through these different -elements that he most came into conflict with his mother: it was through -those he had in common with her. For his jealous desire for independence -was not yet in possession of a personality that properly belonged to -him, and every resemblance to his mother seemed to him a sort of threat -of annexation. So, to defend himself, he tried to be different. Whatever -she said, whatever she did, he was the opposite. Because she was loving, -he was insensible; because she was confiding, he shut himself up; -because she was passionate, he was cold and cutting. And everything that -she fought, everything that was repugnant to Annette's nature--ah, how -well he knew these things!--became attractive to him, and he made haste -to let Annette know it. Because she cared about her morality, the wilful -child considered it the proper thing to regard himself as unmoral and -made a point of proclaiming, "Morality is all fiction." - -So he declared to his mother, and the credulous Annette took it -seriously. She attributed it to the deplorable influence of Sylvie, who -amused herself by casting disorder into the little soberly cultivated -brain. . . . There they go into the flower-beds, a handful of wild -seeds! And she raked the smooth paths the wrong way. She had plenty of -good reasons for persuading herself that she was acting in the interest -of the child. "That poor little fellow, shut up in a greenhouse, kept -locked up in a box! We're going to take him out of his flower-pot!" Even -while she loved her sister, she took a lively and cruel pleasure in -stealing away from her this heart that was a slip of her own. - -The shrewd self-interest of the child in everything that concerned him -had perceived the duel that was being waged between the two sisters, and -naturally he exploited it. He cunningly kept his favors for Sylvie, and -he was much pleased by the jealousy which he aroused in his mother. -Annette no longer concealed this. She justified it, with more reason -than Sylvie, as being in Marc's interest. Sylvie loved the child and she -had plenty of common sense. Her light wisdom was just as good as the -weightier wisdom of some other people, but it was not suitable for a boy -of thirteen, and the good he got from it was dangerous. If she sharpened -in him the appetite for life, she did not give him respect for it; and -when respect vanishes too early, look out for a smash! Sylvie was no -person to form Marc's taste, except in the matter of clothes. She took -him to silly movies and music-halls from which he brought back -bewildering songs and images that left little room for serious thoughts, -and his work showed the effects of it. Annette was angry and forbade -Sylvie to take Marc out. This was a good way of sealing the alliance of -the nephew and the aunt. Marc felt that he was persecuted; he discovered -that, in our time, the profession of being an oppressed people is -remunerative; and Annette learned, to her cost, that of the -oppressor is not all tranquillity. - -On every occasion Marc now made her feel that he was a victim and that -she abused her strength. Well, so be it! She would abuse it to keep him -in line. She would not tolerate the frivolity of his language, the -unseemly habit he had picked up of making fun of everything, his -impertinent blague. To subdue it she opposed him with her severe -principles. He had a fine blow to give her in return. For a long time he -had been waiting for the chance. - -One day when he was finding support in his aunt's words against some -prohibition of his mother's, Annette impatiently told him that Sylvie -had the right to say and do what she wanted; one couldn't condemn her, -but what was good for her was not good for him. He was not to take her -as a model. "She is not to be imitated in everything." - -Marc listened to the tirade and said carelessly, "Yes, but she has a -husband." - -Annette could not reply at first; she did not want to understand. What -had he said? No, it wasn't possible! And then a blush spread over her -forehead. Sitting there, with her hands motionless over her work, she -did not stir. Nor did he make any further movement. He was not very -proud of what he had said, of what was about to happen. The silence -continued a long time. A flood of anger rose in Annette's vehement -heart. She let it pass. Pity, irony, took its place. She sighed -contemptuously. "Little wretch!" she thought. And at last, as her -fingers resumed their task, she said, "And no doubt you consider that a -woman without a husband who works to support her child is less worthy of -respect?" - -Marc lost his poise. He did not reply. He did not excuse himself. He was -mortified. - -That night Annette did not sleep. So she had sacrificed herself in vain! -That the world should blame her was in the order of things. But he to -whom she had given everything! How had he known? Who had breathed this -thought into his ear? She could not be angry with him, but she was -overwhelmed. - -Marc slept peacefully. He was not free from remorse, but the sleep was -stronger than the remorse. After a good night he would have forgotten it -if he had not encountered it again in his mother's anxious look. It -annoyed him that his mother had not forgotten as he had. He was sorry, -but he could not make up his mind to say so; and, since he was -uncomfortable, his childish logic made him angry with his mother. - -They did not allude to the scene. But after it things were no longer as -they had been before. They were constrained when they kissed each other. -Annette no longer treated him wholly as a child. - -How had he known? Conversations at school had made him reflect on the -name he bore, which was that of his mother. Old allusions, picked up as -they had passed in old days in the workshop, which he had not -understood, became clear now. Some imprudent words of Sylvie to her -sister, in the child's presence. And the enigma this mother was for him, -at once irritating and fascinating him, through the aura of passions -which, without the power to discern them, his puppy-instinct had -scented. Over it all he had built a strange, vague fairy-tale which did -not hang together very closely. His birth puzzled him. How could he find -out about it? The reply that hurt his mother was partly a trap he was -setting for her. In his heart there was a mingled curiosity and -bitterness in regard to what had happened, about which he knew nothing. -He had never dared to question Sylvie on the subject, for he was proud -on his mother's behalf and he suspected that she had been wronged. But -he thought he had the right to be angry with her because of the -important secret she was hiding from him. This secret stood like a -stranger between herself and him. - -A stranger indeed. Marc never suspected that at moments he invoked -before his mother's eyes the stranger, his father, and, even worse, the -other Brissots. For in the secret warfare that went on henceforth -between the mother and the young boy the latter instinctively armed -himself with everything he could find, in his own nature, that was -opposed to Annette. Thus, without knowing it, he sometimes disinterred -and used against her various traits he had inherited from his Brissot -ancestry: the famous condescending smile, the self-satisfaction, the -waggish philistinism the hostile certitude of which nothing could shake. -A shadow, a reflexion on the water. Annette recognized them and thought, -"They have caught me!" - -Was he really a stranger? No, he was not. The weapon, the inherited -traits, yes; but the hand that held it was of Annette's substance. And -that rebellious hand was clenched in that opposition between two beings -who were too closely related, too much akin, which was only one of the -thousand tricks of Love and Destiny. - - - - -XXXII - - -He had no friends. This boy of thirteen, who spent every morning and -afternoon in a class with thirty other children, was isolated from his -comrades. When he was smaller, he had enjoyed chattering, playing, -running, shouting. For a year or two now, he had had fits of -speechlessness, a sudden hunger for solitude. This did not mean that he -had ceased to feel the need of companions. He may even have needed them -more than before. Exactly! He needed them too much; he expected too much -and he had too much to give. And there were bristles everywhere in this -spring thicket. A bridling self-esteem. A mere nothing wounded it, and -he was afraid of being wounded and especially of showing it. That was a -weakness, and he had to take care not to give the enemy a hold over him. -(There is an enemy in every friend.) - -What he had grasped, or rather imagined, regarding his civil status, his -mother's past, kept him in an absurd, ridiculous, towering state of -torment. His reading contributed to this; he was convinced that he was a -"natural" child. (His romantic books called him by a harsher name.) He -found a way of taking pride in this. He almost went so far as to catch -in the archaic insult the wild, musty scent of nobility. He considered -himself interesting, different from other people, solitary, just a -little damned. It would not have displeased him to find himself among -the Satanic bastards of Schiller and Shakespeare. This would have given -him the right to despise the world, with lofty tirades--in secret. - -But when he found himself in the world again--in his class at school, -among his comrades--he was intimidated, weighed down by his secret, -suspicious that they might guess it. His strange ways, his fated look, -the thin voice that was beginning to break, his pretty girlishness, -blushing, yet insolent as a young cock, excited the attention and the -ill-will of his companions and even exposed him to the shameful advances -of one of those little scamps who persecuted him with his half-comic, -half-serious, proposals. He was completely upset by this; that night he -was sick with revolt and disgust. He did not want to go back to school -again, and he could not tell his mother the reasons; he had to win -respect for himself unaided. He said to himself, "I shall kill him." - -His riotous mind was excited by a deep ground-swell. - -He had reached the time when the reproductive forces awaken. They -fascinated him and terrified him. The strange innocence of his mother -existed there beside him without seeing or suspecting anything. He would -have died of shame if she had seen or suspected. And alone, despising -himself, he surrendered frantically to the terrible solicitations of the -degrading instinct. . . . But what could the child do, a poor child -delivered over to these mad forces? This monstrous nature puts into a -thirteen-year-old body the brutal fire which for want of nourishment -devours it. There are natures which find salvation in throwing -themselves wholly, through a contrary excess, into an ascetic exaltation -of the spirit which often entails physical ruin. The young people of our -time, more fortunate than their elders, have begun to practise the -virile discipline of athletics. Marc would have asked nothing better than -this, but there again nature was against him. He was not strong enough. -Ah, how he envied the strong! How jealously he loved their beauty! . . . -So much that he hated it. . . . He would never be like them. - -Desires, all the desires, pure, impure, a chaos! . . . All the hostile -demons! He would have been the plaything of chance--nothing could have -helped him--had it not been for a basis of moral health and -decency--rather, the grandeur that is unaware of its own capabilities, -that divine something, the result of the sufferings, the valor, and the -long patience of the best of the race, which will not endure the shame -of defilement, the disgrace of falling, which has an anxious instinct -for what is vile and cowardly, which follows its trail inward, into all -the sinuosities of one's thought, which does not always escape stains, -but never fails to condemn them, to condemn oneself, to brand oneself -and punish oneself. - -Pride! All praise to pride! _Sanctus_ . . . In childish natures like -this pride is health. It is the affirmation of the divine in the mire, -the principle of salvation. In a solitude without love who would -struggle without pride? Why struggle, if one does not believe one has -supreme blessings to defend, and that for them one must conquer -or die! . . . - -Marc was determined to conquer. Conquer what he understood and what he -did not understand. Conquer what he was ignorant of and what was -repugnant to him. Conquer the enigma of the world and his own baseness. -Ah, here as elsewhere, he was incessantly conquered. In his effort to -work, to read, to concentrate, he slipped beyond his own control, he -found himself out of hand. He always lacked the strength. . . . It was -there, but it was hardly formed, unequal to the task and the demands of -the will. He was devoured by desires and curiosities, healthy, -unhealthy, that plagued him on all sides, weltering as he was in torpor, -incapable of doing anything or determining anything. He wasted his time, -and he was always in a hurry. Already his future filled his mind, the -choice of a career; for he knew that it would be necessary for him to -decide early, and he had no grounds for deciding; he floated through -everything, equally interested and indifferent, attracted and disgusted. -He wanted and he did not want; he was not even capable of wishing or of -not wishing. The machine was not running aright. It would bound forward -and suddenly stop, and he would find himself sprawling on the ground. - -Then he looked around him. And this child who was suffering and -devouring himself was quicker than anyone else to perceive the emptiness -and the ennui of an age that had begun its journey to destruction. He -had a keen sense of the abyss. - -But his mother saw none of all this. She saw a sulky, overweening, -rebellious, childish boy, morbidly susceptible, grandiloquent, always -making trouble, who sometimes took delight in uttering obscenities, and -at other moments was shocked at a mere free expression. Above all, she -was irritated by his sneers. She had no suspicion of his feeling of -bitterness, still less of his defiance of an evil fate. He felt cruelly -the injustice of his lot; he was (or thought himself) without strength, -without beauty, without talent, good for nothing; he ended by swamping -himself, adding to his real defects others that he imagined; he conspired -with all the outward signs that were able to humiliate him. . . . Those -two little working-girls who laughed as they passed him were -laughing, he thought, at him; he did not suspect that they were laughing -just to arouse his interest, that they rather liked his blushing, shyly -girlish air. He thought he saw in the eyes of his teachers a -contemptuous pity for his mediocrity. He thought his more robust -comrades despised his weakness and were showing up his cowardice; for -since he was excessively nervous, he had his moments of pusillanimity; -and, as he was sincere, he confessed this to himself and felt that he -was dishonored. As a means of self-punishment, he secretly compelled -himself to commit dangerously imprudent acts that brought the cold sweat -to his brow and rehabilitated him a little--so little!--in his own eyes. -It was at himself, often, that this little Nicodemus was sneering, at -himself and his own weaknesses. But he was angry with the world that had -made him what he was, and especially with his mother. - -She did not understand his hostile air. . . . What an egoist he was! He -thought only of himself. - -He thought only of himself? What would have become of him if he had not -thought of himself? If he had not helped himself, who would have helped -him? - -They remained alone, walled up, side by side. The day of confidences was -past. Annette was beginning to repeat the lamentation of mothers, "How -much more loving he was when he was younger!" - -And he was saying to himself that mothers only love their children for -their own amusement. No one loves anyone but himself. - -No, everyone wants to love the other person. But when one is in danger -one must think of oneself. One will think of the other afterward. How -can one save the other if one hasn't saved oneself? And how can one save -oneself if one lets the other hang about one's neck? - - - - -XXXIII - - -Annette, pushed aside by her son, became as hard as he. When the heart -is deliberately closed to love, the mind, freed by the absence of the -object that nourishes its affection, is driven to satisfy its -intellectual hunger and its need of action. She worked all day, read in -the evening, and at night slept soundly. Marc spitefully envied and -despised the health of this vigorous woman, the faculty she seemed to -have for escaping self-torment. - -Annette, however, suffered from the privation of not being able to share -her thoughts with a companion. She filled the void by work, by actively -forgetting. . . . But work for work's sake is itself so empty! . . . And -upon whom can one spend those unused forces one feels in oneself? - -Sacrifice! . . . That need of sacrifice! . . . Annette found it -everywhere about her, often pathetic, sometimes absurd. For as a good -observer she incessantly explored faces and souls every day and all day -long; she distracted herself from her own troubles by throwing herself -into those of others. Perhaps curiosity prevailed over pity during this -period when her heart was petrified (as she thought) by the spectacle of -so much suffering, and especially so many defeats and abdications. - -Among women who are struggling as she was to wrest from society the -means of existence, how many are broken, far less by the harshness of -things than by their own weakness and abnegation! Almost all are -exploited by some affection and cannot exist without being exploited. -One would say that this is their only reason for living--the reason for -which they die. . . . - -One of them sacrifices herself to an old mother or an egotistical -father. Another, to a vulgar husband or some man who deceives her. -Another, another--myself!--to a child who does not love her, who will -forget her, who will betray her to-morrow perhaps. . . . Well, what does -it matter? If I find a joy in being betrayed by him, imposed upon, -forgotten? "If it pleases me to be beaten!" Ah, derision, trickery! . . . -And the others envy you, those who have no one to whom to sacrifice -themselves! They marry a dog, a cat, a bird. Each one has her idol. If -you must have one at any price, God would serve better. He, at least, -amounts to something. . . . I too have my God, my unknown God, my hidden -truth, and this passion that drives me on to seek it. . . . Deceptive, -perhaps, like the others. But I shall not know it till I have reached -it. And if this is deceptive, at least it is elevated and worth the -trouble. - -Annette revolted against the absurdity of some sacrifices. No, nature -does not wish the best to be sacrificed to the most unworthy. And if she -did wish it, why should I submit to it? But she does not wish it! She -wishes one to sacrifice oneself to the best, to the grandest, to the -strongest. - -Sacrifice at any price, to the worst as to the best, perhaps even to the -worst by preference, because the sacrifice is thus most complete, -sacrifice for the sake of sacrifice--yes, that is conformable enough to -the idea people have of God . . . _Credo quia absurdum_ . . . Like -master, like man! This God is indeed he who rests on the Seventh Day, -finding that which he has made is well made. If one had listened to him, -the chariot of man would have stopped at the first turn of the wheel. -All the progress of the world is made against his will . . . _Fiat_! We -shall drive the chariot on. It may crush us, but at least we wish it to -go forward. - - - - -XXXIV - - -A tragic incident increased Annette's aversion to these immolations that -seemed to her so pointless--immolations of those who were worth more to -those who were worthless. - -She had recently been in competition, for a course for foreigners at an -institution at Neuilly, with a young woman whose strong-willed rustic -face had attracted her. She tried to strike up a conversation with her. -But she was suspicious and could think of nothing but getting Annette -out of the way. At that time Annette, who was still unused to these -struggles that repelled her, had held up her own end badly; indeed, -through her desire to make a friend, she had withdrawn in the interest -of her rival. The latter had shown her no gratitude for this. Nothing -counted for her but her own advantage. An ant eagerly hastening to heap -up her gains. Annette did not interest her. - -Annette had lost sight of her, and when, six years later, chance brought -them again into one another's presence, they had both changed. Annette -was no longer disposed to be generous, or rather fastidious. . . . Life -is as it is. . . . I am not able to modify it. I want to live. You must -take second place. - -The struggle began. It did not last long. At the first blow the rival -was knocked out. How she had aged! Annette was struck by her ravaged -look. She had remembered her as a brunette with ruddy cheeks marked with -two or three little black dots like raisins in bread, a solid peasant -girl, short-waisted, thick-set, a face with fine, dry features, which, -if it had not been so sullen, would not have lacked a certain grace--a -stubborn brow, abrupt, always hurried movements. She saw now a thin, -shrivelled face, a hard glance, a bitter mouth, hollow cheeks, young but -blighted like scorched grass. - -The disputed situation was that of secretary to an engineer: it required -only two mornings of attendance each week to go through the business -correspondence and receive visitors. Annette encountered Ruth Guillon in -the antechamber, and their hostile eyes met. - -"You have come for this place," said Ruth Guillon. "It has been promised -to me." - -"It has not been promised to me," said Annette. "But I have come for -this place." - -"No use, it's going to be given to me." - -"Whether it's useless or not, I've come. It belongs to the one who gets -it." - -A moment later Annette was called into the engineer's office and chosen. -She was known as an accurate, intelligent worker. - -As she came out she ran into Ruth and passed her coldly. Ruth stopped -her and asked, "You are going to have it?" - -"I have it." - -She saw the other's forehead redden strangely. She was expecting some -violent remark, but Ruth said nothing. Annette continued on her way, and -the other followed her. They descended the stairs. As she reached the -street, Annette, turning round, threw a rapid glance towards her -defeated rival, and Ruth's dejected air touched her. In spite of her -resolution to be hard, she went back and said to her, "I'm sorry. One -has to live." - -"Oh, I'm quite aware of that," said the other. "Some have all the luck. -I never have any." - -Her tone had entirely changed. Dejection without animosity. Annette made -a movement to take her hand, but Ruth drew back her own. - -"Come, don't feel badly! One day one of us loses; another day it will be -the other." - -"It's every day with me." - -Annette recalled their first encounter when Ruth had succeeded in -getting the place. Ruth did not reply and walked along dejectedly beside -Annette. - -"Couldn't I help you?" said Annette. - -The blush overspread her forehead again. Wounded pride, emotion? Ruth -said dryly, "No!" - -"It would give me pleasure to do so," Annette insisted. - -And with a familiar gesture she seized her arm. Ruth was surprised and -pressed Annette's hand nervously under her arm, and, turning her head, -she bit her lip. Then she tore herself away in irritation and walked -off. - -Annette let her go, following her with her eyes. She understood her: -yes, one has no right to offer one's pity to one who does not ask for -it. - -A few days later, entering a dairy, she saw Ruth making some purchases. -She held out her hand to her. This time Ruth took it, but with an icy -air. She made an effort, however, to appear less sullen; she uttered a -few common-place words, and Annette, satisfied with this ungenerous -advance, replied. The two women discussed the prices of the things they -had bought. Annette, though she did not show it, was astonished that -Ruth spent more than she on fresh eggs and special milk. Ruth was a -little ostentatious in paying in front of her. As they went out, Annette -said, "How much it costs to live!" She almost excused herself for the -eggs she had bought, saying, "They're for my child." - -Ruth, with a lofty air, remarked, "Mine are for my husband." - -Annette knew nothing about the other's life. "Is he ill?" she asked. - -"No, but he is very delicate." - -She spoke proudly of the care that his health required. Annette, who -knew how touchy Ruth was, did not ask her any questions, but waited for -her to speak. Ruth said nothing more and they were about to separate -when Annette remembered. . . . She offered Ruth a job--the revision of -some work by a foreigner--which had been offered to her and which she -did not have time to undertake. Ruth at once showed the liveliest -gratitude: money played in her life a capital rôle. Annette asked for -her address in case she had other orders to pass on to her. Ruth -hesitated and replied evasively. - -"It's only to be of service to you," said Annette impatiently. "In any -case, I live myself--" And she gave her address. - -Ruth reluctantly gave her own. Annette felt rebuffed and decided to -think no more about her. - -But Ruth came and looked her up a few weeks later. She excused herself -for having seemed so unfriendly. And this time she confided to her a -little, not much, about her life. Born of a family of rich farmers, she -had quarrelled with her father because she had wanted to come to Paris -and teach. Her father had wounded her pride and she had sworn never to -accept anything from him. She wanted to earn her own living. She had -worn herself out. In spite of her energy, thinking was too much for her; -she labored at her books like an animal at the plough; the blood swelled -her temples; she was obliged to stop in a state of congestion. An -incipient neurasthenia forced her to give up the examinations she was -just ready to pass. She fell back upon giving private lessons. She was -succeeding, with difficulty, in earning her living when she fell in love -with a man whom she married and who became simply one burden the more. -But this she did not say; Annette learned it elsewhere. She was acute -enough to divine a part of the truth in the course of the discreet -questions she asked her new friend. She saw that the husband had no -occupation: he was an "intellectual," an "artist," a "writer." And she -did not have to go very far to find what he wrote. Verses! . . . - -Ruth had no more taste than any other little provincial soul. But the -poetry overawed her. - -She was in no haste to introduce her "artist." She kept him at home. But -from this time forward she saw Annette more often--too often. She ended -by overwhelming her with testimonials of friendship, flowers, attentions -that were seldom very well inspired and only irritated Annette. She had -no middle way: it was all or nothing with this passionate soul. She had -never had a woman friend; she had never confided in anyone. From the -moment when she made up her mind to like Annette she monopolized her. -Annette was bored to death by this affection, and she realized that the -husband would not find it easy to bear. - -At last she succeeded in surprising and catching a glimpse of the -precious bird: a dull, insignificant man with vague blue eyes who gave -the impression that he was a secret devotee of absinthe. Very vain and -far from sure of himself, utterly mediocre, he was anxious for Annette's -good opinion. He did not love his wife, but he found it convenient to be -pampered by her and assumed languishing, piteous, sad airs in the name -of his health, his unrecognized talents and the envy of his -fellow-writers. Annette pierced him through and through with her clear -eyes. He was cautious with her and moderated the jeremiads for which the -silent irony of his listener was waiting. But Ruth swallowed everything -whole; she was incapable of judging and as proud as Artaban. . . . "Let -her keep her illusions. She needs some one to love, a man to protect. -She has a passionately domestic soul. She would lie down under his -feet. . . ." But sometimes she quarrelled with him bitterly. Once, as -Annette was climbing the stairs, she heard the "poet" bawling and whining. -Ruth was slapping her husband. - -Annette no longer had any doubt that the best part of Ruth's money was -spent for José's loafing and absinthe. He played the races also. Ruth -never complained: she struggled to save up enough for him to publish a -volume of his poems. But he was in no hurry to write them. And when, one -day, she went over her accounts she discovered that he had stolen -three-quarters of the money: he had robbed himself! - -That day, with her pride utterly broken, she confessed her misery to -Annette. She would not have spoken if it had concerned herself alone. -But for years she had been wearing herself out for him--"for his glory," -as she said. And he had destroyed it himself! - -One confidence leads to another. Annette ended by learning almost all of -Ruth's sufferings. Her health was ruined. She was growing weaker every -day and less able to restrain her thoughts. As death approached her eyes -were opened and she realized the inanity of this man and his lack of -affection. José was hardly ever at home any more. He would steal away, -finding no pleasure in the society of a sick, disappointed wife. - -When her last days came, Ruth had no illusions left. She declared, -however, with sincere pride, that she regretted nothing and that she -would do it all over again. - -"_That_ has killed me. But I have lived by it." - -She did not believe in anything; she expected nothing, either in this -world or in the other. . . . - -Annette was alone with her when she lay on her deathbed. A hemorrhage of -the brain had struck her down. - -José, who had fled at the approach of death, showed his timorous face a -few moments afterwards. He had a brief moment of feeling. After he had -wept, his first words were, "But what in heaven's name is to become of -me?" - -"You'll find someone else to support you," said Annette. - -He threw her a spiteful glance. And he let Annette pay the funeral -expenses. - -"There you are!" Annette thought, by the bedside of the dead woman. "She -was a tower of pride, will, ascetic devotion. . . . What good did it all -do? What a mess! Giving oneself to a dog! Poor Ruth was hard. She was -not hard enough. One must be harder still." - - - - -XXXV - - -Reaction against the deception of the heart--my accursed heart which is -only there to delude me. My head and my senses will and know. My heart -is blind. It is my business to direct it. Reaction against love, and -against sacrifice, and against goodness. - -In everyone's life, as in the life of society, there are phases of -feeling that succeed one another without resembling one another. Their -first law, indeed, is not to resemble one another. While one phase is in -the ascendant, everyone shares in it with complete seriousness, feeling -nothing but contempt for the ridiculousness of the phases that have -passed out of date and convinced that his phase is and will always be -the best. . . . Annette passed in this way through a phase of hardness. - -But whatever one's garment may be, the human being remains the same. One -cannot get along without others. The proudest needs his share of -affection; and the more circumstances oblige one to shut oneself in, the -more one's treacherous mind conspires to betray one. - -Annette felt very strong. Strong in her experience and her intelligence, -firm, practical, disillusioned. She was sure now that she could live by -her will--of course, by working, but the work too was her will. She did -not fear any lack of this. She did not need anyone's help. Nor was she -going to put herself out either to please or to displease. - -She had found herself in competition lately with a new kind of rival, -men. She gave lessons to boys to prepare them for school and -examinations. She was successful, but along with her success came the -increasing animosity of those to whom she was preferred. They considered -themselves thwarted. There was no question of gallantry any more. The -most destitute of consideration were the married men: their wives -spurred them on. They slandered Annette: what would they not insinuate -in regard to the means by which she managed to reach the best places? -Annette, with her hard, attractive smile on her lips, followed her own -road, scornful of public opinion. - -At bottom, however, there was the invisible stamp of the wear and tear -exacted by these long years of merciless toil. Her fortieth year was -approaching. Life had passed and she had not realized it. An obscure -feeling of revolt was rising within her. All this lost life, this life -without love, without action, without luxury, without any rich -joy. . . . And all that she had missed she had been so completely -fitted to enjoy! - -What was the use of thinking of it? It was too late now! - -Too late? - - - - -_SUMMER_ - - -PART THREE - - - - -XXXVI - - -Solange had the small, well-rounded, rustic face of a Gothic Madonna, an -oldish, infantile air, laughing, wrinkled eyes, a pretty nose, a -delicate mouth, a rather heavy chin, fine skin and a ruddy complexion. -She liked to discuss serious thoughts in a serious tone, very serious, -contrasting comically with her kind, humorous face, which tried hard not -to be so; but her words hurried along for fear of losing the thread of -her sober ideas; and sometimes she actually did stop in mid-course with -a void in her mind: "What was it I meant to say?" - -Her auditors seldom whispered a reply, for they scarcely listened to -her. But she did not irritate them, for Solange was not one of those -people who hold forth and insist upon your following their insipid -discourse. She had no pride and was ready to apologize affectionately -for having bored you. But incapable as she was by nature of grasping an -idea, she had a naïve aspiration for thought and an immense good will. -Nothing very much came of it: her thoughts never quite arrived. The -grave books, Plato, Guyau, Fouillée, yawned at the same page for weeks -or months; and the great, beautiful projects, idealistic, -altruistic--works of social aid or new systems of education--were -intellectual toys that she soon forgot in their corners and under the -furniture till the next chance brought them to her attention again. A -good little bourgeoise, gentle, amiable, pretty, sensible, -well-balanced, with a dash of pedantry, unconstrained, droll, who, -without posing, imagined that she had intellectual needs and really had -to talk about the ideal and many other things, all on the same plane, -calm, tidy, well-dressed, polite, innocent and a nobody. - -Younger than Annette by three or four years, she had once felt for her -one of those paradoxical attractions that harmless natures feel for -those that are dangerous. It is true that these phenomena usually -manifest themselves at a distance. In fact, she had approached Annette -very little at school, where they were in different classes. It was only -because she saw her as she came and went and had picked up some echoes -from the older girls that little Solange had conceived for her elder a -timid fascination. Annette had had no suspicion of it; and since then -Solange had completely forgotten her. She had married, and she was -happy. Not to have been happy, she would have had to have a monster for -a husband--or a passionate man. Victor Mouton-Chevallier was, heaven be -praised, neither one nor the other. A sculptor by vocation, he was not -tormented by inspiration, for he had an income and a rich placidity. He -had no lack of taste, but he felt no pressing need of translating into -his art anything different from what had already been done by this, that -or the other of his illustrious confrères of all ages. And as he was -innocent of ambition, as he was free from illiberal feelings (from -others too, perhaps), he enjoyed an unmixed satisfaction in finding -himself so well, so completely, expressed--at least, so he flattered -himself in believing--by Michael Angelo, by Rodin, by Bourdelle, or by -the smaller gentry; for he was eclectic and found his good things -everywhere. In this happy state he would certainly not have made the -effort to produce anything himself if this had not added to his pleasure -one savor the more: the flattering illusion that he belonged to the -family. He was willing to accept the tender respect that he felt called -upon to show for the heroes of art and their misfortunes. He shared in -these latter--from afar; and he forced his jovial face to assume an air -of austere melancholy as he listened to his wife discreetly playing the -Sonata Pathétique on the piano--for Beethoven also belonged to the -family. Solange had fully responded to his domestic needs. A tranquil -affection, an easy kindness, a gentle, uniform, complacent humor, an -indoor idealism that did not risk itself outside when it was windy or -muddy, a propensity for admiring that renders life so much more -comfortable!--in short, in a word that says everything, _security_ was -their true unconfessed ideal. Their circumstances, both of fortune and -of heart, permitted them to have this. They were sheltered from material -cares, and there was no fear that they would introduce trouble into -their household. - -But they did introduce Annette. If they had known the elements this Frau -Sorge carried within her, they would have been dreadfully upset. But -they did not know. They were like innocent children playing with an -explosive; they would have had an attack of nerves if they had guessed -what they held in their hands. But guessing nothing, after having their -own sport, they went and laid it down gently, without intending any -harm, in the garden of a friend. . . . They laid Annette down in the -garden of the Villards. - - - - -XXXVII - - -When Solange discovered Annette again, she also discovered in herself -once more the old feeling she had had for her: she fell in love with -her. Like everyone else, she knew about Annette's "irregular" life. But -in her goodness--a goodness without depth, but also without prudery--she -did not think any the worse of her. It must be said that she did not -understand it very well. With her indulgent disposition, which was the -most sympathetic side of her amiable nature, she supposed that Annette -had undoubtedly been victimized, or perhaps that she had had her own -serious reason for acting as she had done. In any case, it concerned -only herself; and she was indignant at public opinion. After seeing her -friend again, she made inquiries about her and learned of her courage -and self-abnegation; she conceived the most exaggerated admiration for -her. This was one of those periodic infatuations that left her, for a -time, no room for any other feeling. Her husband, whom she fed with her -enthusiasms, found in this one an opportunity for melting over Annette's -nobility of heart, and that of his wife, and his own as well. (Is there -anything that enables us to enjoy our own moral beauty more than to be -stirred by that of a fellow-creature?) Husband and wife tried to outbid -each other in their noble intentions towards Annette. They could not -leave her alone, destitute of sympathy, that poor woman, the victim of -social injustice! The Mouton-Chevalliers set out to find Annette, -climbing all the way up to her fifth floor. They surprised her in the -act of doing her housework. This struck them as all the more touching; -and her coldness seemed to them an admirable dignity. They did not leave -till they had won Annette's promise to come and dine with them with her -little boy, _en famille_, the following evening. - -Annette was not very much pleased by this renewed friendship. She saw -how insipid it was. Her years of moral solitude had given her a savage -instinct. It was not good to avoid people too much; one found it hard to -get into touch with them again; one became aware of an odor of -corruption under the flowers. In the quiet household of the -Mouton-Chevalliers, Annette was not at her ease; their conjugal -happiness did not make her envious. "Too mild, too mild, too mild!" as -somebody says in Molière. "No, thank you! Not for me!". . . She had -reached a time when she needed the harsh winds of life. . . . - -Well, she ought to have been satisfied! The mild Solange was going to -see that she got them. - - - - -XXXVIII - - -Annette was dressing to go out to dinner. This evening she was to meet -at the Mouton-Chevalliers those friends of whom she was sick of hearing -from Solange--Doctor Villard, a fashionable surgeon with a rather garish -reputation, and his brilliant young wife. She was troubled. "What if I -shouldn't go?" She half thought of sending a line to excuse herself. But -Marc, who was bored with being alone with his mother, was delighted at -any pretext for going out. Annette did not want to deprive him of this -distraction. Besides, she knew she was absurd. "What's the matter? -What's troubling you?". . . It was like a presentiment of evil. . . . -Silly! The rational spirit that dwelt in her, side by side with the -instincts that took no account of it, made her shrug her shoulders. She -finished her toilet and, taking her son's arm, set out for Solange's. - -The superstitious instinct was not long in taking its revenge. It is no -miracle, indeed, when a presentiment is realized. A presentiment is a -predisposition towards what one is afraid of feeling. Consequently, if -it comes to pass, there is nothing magical about it. It is a sort of -divining-rod; as it approaches a spring, a shiver warns it that the -water is eating its way under the surface. - -On the threshold of the drawing-room, Annette felt the warning; but she -knit her brows, and as soon as she entered the room she was reassured. -Even before Solange had presented him to her, she had made up her mind -at a glance about Philippe Villard: he was antipathetic to her. She had -a feeling of relief. - -Philippe was not handsome. He was small, thick-set, with a brow that -bulged above the eyes, a strong jaw, a short, pointed beard, a steely -blue glance. Very much master of himself, he was cold in a courteous, -commanding way. Seated beside Annette at table, he followed two -conversations: the general discussion that Solange was carrying on in -her desultory manner and that which, in the intervals, he held with his -neighbor. In both he had the same brief, precise, trenchant way of -talking. Never a hesitation, either for a word or an idea. The more -Annette listened, the more hostile she felt towards him. She replied, -concealing herself under a rather dry and distant indifference. He did -not seem to attach great importance to what she said. No doubt he was -judging her from the silly eulogies he had heard from Solange. He was -barely polite. This did not surprise anyone: they were used to his -abrupt ways. But it irritated Annette to have to endure them. She -observed him beside her, without appearing to see him, feature by -feature; and she could find nothing about him that pleased her. But the -total impression was not the total of her impressions of details; and -when, without difficulty, she reached the end of her examination, she -felt uneasy again. A movement of the hand, a wrinkling of the face. . . . -She was afraid of him. And she thought, "Above everything in the -world, he mustn't see into me!" - -Solange spoke of an author who, she said, had the gift of tears. - -"A pretty gift!" said Philippe. "Tears in life are not worth much. But -in art I know nothing more disgusting than to collect them in a bottle." - -The ladies cried out at this. Madame Villard said that tears were one of -the pleasures of life, and Solange said they were an ornament of the -soul. - -"Well, how about you, don't you protest?" he asked Annette. "Do you too -get your supplies from the property-man?" - -"I have enough of my own," she said. "I have no need of other people's." - -"You live on your capital?" - -"Can you suggest any way for me to get rid of them?" - -"Be hard!" - -"I'm learning," she replied. - -He threw her a brief sidelong glance. - -The others continued to unbosom themselves. - -"Look over there," said Philippe to Annette. "There's a good chap who -ought to be taught it." - -With a corner of his eye he indicated Marc, whose mobile face was -naïvely betraying the various emotions which the pretty Madame Villard, -sitting beside him, stirred in him. - -"I'm afraid," said Annette, "that he already has too much of a tendency -that way." - -"All the better!" - -"All the better for those who meet him along the way?" - -"Let him walk over them!" - -"That's easy for you to say." - -"You have only to step aside yourself." - -"That would be against nature." - -"Oh, no, the thing that's against nature is to love too much." - -"One's own child?" - -"Anyone, one's own child especially." - -"He needs me." - -"Look at him! Is he thinking of you? He would disown you for a crumb -from my wife's hand." - -Annette's fingers clenched on the tablecloth. . . . Ah, how she hated -him! . . . He had seen her fingers. "I didn't create him just to give -him up." - -"You didn't create him at all," he replied. "Nature created him. She -uses you and casts you aside afterward." - -"I shall not let myself be cast aside." - -"A battle, then?" - -"A battle!" - -He looked her in the face, "You will be beaten," he said. - -"I know it. One always is. But what's the difference? One fights just -the same." - -Under the cold mask her eyes smiled defiantly. But the blue gaze of the -other penetrated her like a stab. She had given herself away. - -Philippe was a forceful man. His force was part of his genius. He -carried it as much into his clinic, in his terrible diagnostics and the -sureness of his hand, into the operating-room, as into the acts of his -life and his decisions. Accustomed to reading at a glance the depths of -human bodies, he had understood Annette completely at once--Annette, her -passions, her pride and her troubles, her temperament and her strong -nature. And Annette felt that she had been caught. With her helmet -fallen so soon, her visor broken, furiously angry, she betrayed -henceforth to the eyes of her adversary only an icy armor. In the -constriction at her heart, she knew now that the enemy had come. The -enemy? Yes, love. . . . (Ah, that insipid word, so far from the cruel -force itself! . . .) To the sudden awakening of interest which she had -perceived in him, she opposed an ironical inflexibility that very -inadequately concealed the hostility she felt. It only completed her -self-betrayal. She was too genuine, too passionate. She could not -pretend. Her very animosity revealed the depths of her being. Philippe -was the only one to see this. He did not attempt to revive the -conversation again; he had learned enough, and, with a detached air, -recounting to the company one of those bitter, amusing stories that were -stamped with his own harsh experience, he measured with his eye the -woman he intended to capture. - -None of the others who were present had observed anything. The -Mouton-Chevalliers were regretfully convinced that Annette and Philippe -were unsympathetic to each other: between their two characters there was -nothing in common. However, in bringing Annette and the Villards -together, they had hoped that Annette and Mme. Villard would become -friends. "They were made for each other." And so far as that was -concerned, they had the pleasure of seeing that they were not mistaken. - -Noémi Villard was a delightful Creole, with small bones, plump flesh -gilded like a roast pigeon, the eyes of a roe, a fine nose, spare -cheeks, a prominent little mouth that always seemed to be ready to snap -something up; round, innocent, youthful breasts, generously revealed, -frail arms, a slender waist, small feet, delicate legs. She played the -part of a child-woman, with her infatuations, her languors, her -enthusiasms, her laughs and tears and lisping words. She seemed to be a -fragile creature, expansive, sensitive, not too intelligent. In reality -she was just the opposite. With plenty of brains, sensual, dry and -passionate, observing everything, calculating everything, unweariable, -unbreakable, fragile, yes, like a willow that bends and--bing!--comes -lashing back, made of solid cement under the friable enamel. She alone -could have told how much energy this delicate enamel cost. As for -intelligence, she had enough of it and to spare: she kept it in the -bank, but she utilized it only for the object that interested her, her -husband, whom she held jealously. Theirs had been, on both sides, a -passionate marriage of the head and the senses--passionate in its -pleasures and its vanity. Noémi's decision had long preceded Philippe's -choice, and even his attention. This man who, after the example of his -illustrious Parisian confrères, carried on with equal ardor his -crushing professional activity and a ceaseless social life, had found -the time to indulge in many love affairs. His triumphant reputation had -had a good deal to do with Noémi's mad love and her determined desire -to capture him, for herself alone, and keep him. Philippe cared nothing -about intelligence in women. He wanted them to be well-made, healthy, -elegant and stupid. He went so far as to say that a woman could never be -stupid enough. Noémi certainly was not, but that made no difference. A -woman who desires a man can assume, before her mirror, the mind as well -as the eyes that he likes. She intoxicated Philippe with her youthful -body and her idolatry. She absorbed him greedily. - -But the career of a mistress is not a sinecure. It requires the -expenditure of a kind of genius. And there is never a moment of rest! -After a long period of mutual amorous servitude Philippe was beginning -to grow weary. Noémi, marvellously prompt in perceiving in the heart of -her husband-lover the least signs of a veering of the wind, slept with -one eye open; always jealously on the watch, while Philippe was unaware -of it, she was able to turn danger aside with one stroke and entrap -again, by the allurement of the senses and her subtle wit, the man who -was about to escape her. It was a game at first, but not for long. Still -more than Philippe she had to watch herself, to be always attentive, -always ready to ward off the unexpected ravages of the perfidious -minutes, the infallible ravages of the days and the years. Noémi no -longer had all her first freshness; her complexion was mottled; the -fineness of her face was turning to dryness, her throat was growing -heavy, and the pure cords of her neck were menaced. Art flew to the aid -of the endangered masterpiece and even added a few additional charms. -But what tension this always meant! The least moment of abandon would -have betrayed the secret to the keen eye of the master, who would not -have forgotten it. Never to allow oneself to be taken unawares! . . . -What a tragedy one morning when one of the little upper incisors broke! -Noémi had remained half the day invisible at the dentist's, for if, on -her return, Philippe had not seen her exhibit her impeccable smile, he -would have had suspicions into which jealousy did not enter. (Though -even jealousy is less terrible than a broken tooth!) She had to play a -fast game. Philippe was not one of those husbands whom one can easily -deceive in regard to the quality of one's physical wares. He belonged to -that trade himself. Noémi always felt her heart beat a little when he -turned on her one of those "X-Ray" glances (as she called them, -laughing, to put him on the wrong scent) with which he made her undergo -a visit of inspection. "Does he see?" she would, wonder. He saw, but he -did not show it. Noémi's art seemed to him a part of nature; and so -long as the effect pleased him everything went well. But look out for -the day when the effect might fail! . . . She could not sleep two nights -running on her laurels. She had to win them anew every morrow morning. -And she was not permitted to appear anxious. To please the master she -had to seem always gay, young, radiant. It was crushing at times. In -moments of weariness, when she knew she was not being seen, she slid -down in the hollow of a divan, with a hard wrinkle between her eyes, a -shrivelled smile, her carmine lips bleeding. . . . But the attack of -weakness never lasted more than a minute or two. She had to set out -again. And she did set out. Young, gay, radiant. . . . Why not? She was -so. And she did not slacken. . . . Besides, there are ways of avenging -oneself against, a tyrant whom one cannot do without and who abuses one. -Enough! She had her secrets. . . . We shall speak of them presently if -she is willing. For the moment she laughs, not merely with her lips; she -is satisfied with herself and with him, she is sure, she has kept -him! . . . And naturally this is the hour when he escapes from her. . . . -In vain all her talent! All this trouble in vain! There always comes a -moment when the attention is relaxed. Even Argus slept. And the caged -animal, the heart of the chambered lover, regains its liberty. - -Through one of those aberrations to which nature is accustomed, which -the good mediator finds to her advantage, Noémi, for once, saw a woman -without distrust. And that woman was Annette. - -She was relying on the deceptive assurance that Philippe abhorred -intellectual women. Annette was the last one to cause her any -uneasiness. From the physical portrait of her rivals in the past, from -her own portrait, Noémi had made an image of the woman who might steal -her husband away from her. She saw her as small, like herself, rather -dark, pretty, of course, delicately made, coquettish, knowing how to -make the best of her advantages. Philippe professed the humorous opinion -that woman, being exclusively made for the service of man, should, in -modern life, be an extremely finished drawing-room trinket, but one that -was easy to handle--that, without taking up too much space, she should -agreeably furnish the drawing-room and bedroom. He did not like large -women and valued grace more highly than beauty. As for the qualities of -the mind, he said that, when he needed them, he found them in men, and -that the only mind he demanded of a woman was the "mind of the body." -Noémi did not contradict him in this: she corresponded with the -portrait. Annette did not correspond with it at all. Large and strong, -with a heavy beauty, in repose, when nothing animated her, and (when she -did not wish to have it) without grace. A Juno-heifer slumbering in a -meadow--so Noémi judged her reassuringly; and the fact that Annette -appeared so frigid with Philippe made her attractive. On her side, -Annette, who was very susceptible to prettiness in women, and inclined -to like what did not resemble herself, was charmed by Noémi; in talking -with her she showed that she too, when she wished, had an enchanting -smile. Philippe lost nothing of this; and his new-born flame blazed up -for this Annette with her two masks, one of which was not for him. -(Wasn't it for him? The love one repulses has such clever ways of -re-entering the place from which it has been expelled!) At the same time -that Annette was preventing Philippe from scrutinizing her mind and -intrenching herself behind her most unattractive manner, she was not -displeased that he should see her most captivating expression over the -wall. . . . Yes, he had seen it clearly. From the opposite corner of the -drawing-room, as he was describing to his hosts some recent experience, -he observed his wife, who was working for him unawares. Annette and -Noémi were lavishing on each other all the little graces with which -Noémi was always well supplied, inspiring in Annette a complex feeling -from which the uneasy thought of Philippe was not absent. And her ear -followed, from the opposite corner of the room, the derisive voice that -knew it was being listened to. - -She hated him, she hated him. . . . He represented the deepest part of -her repressed nature, the nature she wished to repress, the good and the -bad, the hard, commanding pride, the need of dominating, the demands of -the will, those of the intelligence, of a sensual, violent body, passion -without love, stronger than love. And as she hated this faun of the -soul, hated it in herself, she hated it in him. But this was to engage -in an unequal combat. There were two against her--he and her own self. - - - - -XXXIX - - -Philippe Villard came from the small, independent merchant class. - -His father, a printer in a little town, active, bustling, bold, had at -once the energy and the freedom from scruple that are necessary for -success on a vaster scene; but he did not succeed, because for success -there is a line of audacity that one must be able to reach and not go -beyond, and he had always gone beyond it. Managing a local newspaper -that swam on the troubled waters of politics, a Gambettist republican, a -tireless anti-clerical, a great hand at elections, he once exceeded the -limits of libel and blackmailing that are authorized by the law (no, by -custom!) and was condemned and dropped by those whom he had served. Ill -in addition, he saw that he was ruined; his plant was sold and all the -local hatreds were unmuzzled, now that he no longer had the means to -make himself useful or feared. He fought furiously, like a wolf, against -illness, poverty and misfortune. The exasperation made his condition -worse, and he died, expressing with his last breath his implacable -bitterness against the treason of his old companions. The son was ten -years old; and none of these imprecations was lost on him. - -His mother, a proud peasant woman from the slopes of the Jura mountains, -accustomed to struggling with an ungrateful soil that was bitten by a -harsh wind, went out by the day as a washerwoman in the canal and -undertook the roughest work. She was as strong as a Percheron mare, -attacking her work with her four limbs and her iron frame, greedy for -gain, but painstaking, honest, hard on herself and close-fisted; she was -feared and sought after; she had a redoubtable tongue, which she -restrained, and people knew that, through her husband's death, she was -the mistress of many family secrets. She made no use of these, but she -possessed them, and it was more prudent to pay for her services than to -do without them. She had no intellectual scruples and was rigorously -active, rather sombre (for in this race Spain has left its blood), with -a limitless passion of energy which, mingled with Gallic -disillusionment, believes in nothing and yet acts as if salvation or -damnation were awaiting it. She loved nothing but her son. She was -ferocious in her love. She did not conceal from him any of the things -about which she held her tongue with other people; she treated him as a -partner. Ambitious for him alone, she sacrificed herself, and he was -going to sacrifice himself--for whom? For _her_ revenge. (_Hers_? Yes, -her own, that of the son, that of the mother--all the same thing!) No -tenderness, no indulgence--above all, no whimpering. "Go without things! -You will gloat over it later." When he came home from school--heaven -knew by what efforts of work and diplomacy she obtained for him a -scholarship in the town grammar-school, then at the lycée in the -county-town!--when he came home, thrashed and humiliated by the little -bourgeois boys, the fool-hardy heirs of the hidden spite of their -fathers, she said to him, "You will be stronger than they are later. -They will kiss your feet. Rely on yourself! Don't rely on anyone else!" - -He did not rely on anyone else, and he soon made it clear that they -would have to reckon with him. She succeeded in clinging to life until -her son's studies were brilliantly finished and he had taken his first -term in medicine in Paris. He was in the midst of an examination when -she had to take to her bed with an inflammation of the chest. She did -not want to disturb him before he had finished. She died without him. In -her rude handwriting, twisted like the claws of the vine in spring, with -all the dots and accents well marked and in their places, she wrote to -him on a blank sheet carefully cut from a letter from her son, who was -reckless with his paper, "I am going. My boy, keep strong. Do not give -way." - -He had not given way. Returning to the country to bury his mother, he -found a small sum of money, collected from day to day, which enabled him -to pay his way for another year. Then, thrown upon himself, he spent -half his days and sometimes his nights earning what the other half -demanded for his subsistence. No task was too much for him. He worked at -natural history for a taxidermist, he served as a sculptor's model, as -an extra boy on Sundays in suburban cafés, or on Saturday nights at -wedding-parties in restaurants. In winter, when he was hungry one -morning, he even took a job under the sewerage commission in a gang of -snow-sweepers. He did not hesitate to have recourse to bold-faced -begging, to charity societies, to accepting humiliating loans which he -could not pay back and which gave mean souls the right to treat him -without consideration for a five-franc piece. . . . (The blackguards! -They didn't try it again after the look he gave them! But then, since -they could not repay themselves with scorn, they did so with hatred, -prudently behind his back: they slandered him.) During a few months of -desperate labor, he went so far as to accept the money that a girl of -the neighborhood offered him. He did not blush at this, for it was not -for himself (he was killing himself with privations), it was for his -success. Of course he had needs! He wanted to take everything, but he -repressed his desire. Later on! He must conquer first. And to conquer he -must live. Live by every means. Victory cleanses everything. And it was -his due. He felt he was a genius. - -He attracted the attention of his masters, his comrades. He was given -work to do that was signed by men at the top after they had made a -pretence of touching it up a little. He allowed himself to be exploited -so as to acquire a hold over those who barred the gates to new-comers. -They were in no great hurry to let him in. They respected him, and -respect is a kind of money that enables one to dispense with other -kinds. They appreciated him, oh, yes. But he did not grow fat on this. -In spite of his native strength, the strength of his mother's Jura -mountains, he was on the point of going under from fatigue and -malnutrition when Solange happened upon him. It was at one of those many -charities which she patronized with a sincere though intermittent -generosity, with her heart and her money; a children's clinic. Solange -saw Philippe there, devoting himself with a rage--that rage he felt to -conquer, whenever there was the least chance of it--at the beds of the -little patients who were apparently doomed. He spent nights there and -came away from these battles looking worn and debilitated, but with eyes -flaming with fever and genius. When he had conquered he was almost -handsome and seemed more than good as he sat by the little sufferer whom -he had just saved. Did he love him? It was possible, not certain. But he -had got the best of the disease. - -Solange, when she saw Philippe's situation, passed through one of those -periodical crises of "patheticness" in which her whole horizon was -filled by a single object. Whoever wished to profit by this had to lose -no time. Philippe did not lose it. This drowning man grasped the hand -that was held out to him. He even took the arm with it, and he would -have taken the rest if he had not perceived that Solange, in her -infatuation, had no thought of an amorous relation. She loved to feel -exalted, but this in no way disturbed her tranquillity. Philippe had -never seen a woman who was interested in him without being in pursuit of -some interest of her own. The good Solange found her pleasure in -herself. All she asked of others was that they should not gainsay the -image she had formed of them. At heart she did not really want to know -them. She took pains not to see anything in the other person that might -displease her, saying to herself that this was not his "real nature"; -and she accepted as real only what resembled herself. Thus she succeeded -in creating in her own mind a whole universe composed of good, -comfortable souls after her own pattern. Philippe let her go her own way -with a little contempt and a little respect. He did not like stupid -people; and he regarded as such those who did not see the world as it -was; but a goodness that does the good of which it speaks was for him no -everyday spectacle. Whatever their value might be, moral or immoral, the -essential thing was that such people counted. Solange's goodness was not -fictitious. Since she had become aware of Philippe's destitution and -toil, she gave him a pension till he finished his years of study; she -provided him with leisure so that he might work in peace. She did more: -she made use of her extensive relations to interest one of the -influential masters of the Faculty in him, or rather, since this -cautious man had not failed to observe the restless power of the hungry -young wolf, to so arrange things that his interest should not remain -confined _intus et in cute_, but should show itself in the open. In the -end she brought him into touch with an American oil-king who wanted to -immortalize himself vicariously and opened for him a rapid path to fame. -He laid the foundation of this across the ocean by his audacious feats -of surgery in a palatial hospital founded by this Pharaoh. - -During the course of these trying years, however, Solange would -sometimes totally forget her protégé for months, and as a result of -her carelessness the promised pension would cease to come. With all -their good will, the rich cannot understand that some people have to -think of money all the time. Money is a constant anxiety with the poor. -Solange would send Philippe tickets to concerts. Philippe had to swallow -all his pride to remind this charming woman, in her box at the theatre, -of the unpaid pension. He swallowed it. It was sometimes the only -nutriment he had taken during the day. On these occasions Solange would -open her big, surprised eyes: "What's that. . . . Ah, my dear friend, -how astonished I am! The moment I get home . . ." - -She would promise, forget it again for a day or two and finally send it, -excusing herself as gracefully as possible. Philippe, maddened by the -delay and the humiliation, would swear that the next time he would die -rather than ask for it again. But dying is not good for people who feel -the necessity of living! And he felt this necessity. . . . He would ask -for it again as often as he was obliged to do so. . . . Solange was -never put out with him. If she often forgot--she had "so much to think -of!"--when he reminded her of it she always took the same pleasure in -giving. - -How strange was the relation between this man, young, ardent, hungry for -all the good things of the earth, and this woman, scarcely older than -himself, elegant, pretty, gentle, good enough to eat, who, as the years -passed, were often alone together, without any hint of anything -equivocal in their friendship! The calm Solange maternally advised -Philippe about his clothes, about the little problems of society and the -practical life. Philippe's pride was not ashamed to accept this, to ask -advice and even make her his confidante, to tell her of his ambitions -and his disappointments. He could do so without fear. Solange would hear -nothing that was evil, nothing that was real. What did it matter? She -listened, and she said afterwards, with her kind smile, "You want to -frighten me, but I don't believe you." - -For she only believed what was not true. - -And this man, pitiless to everything that was mediocre, made only one -exception in life: for Solange. He abstained from judging her. - -Preceded by a reputation of the American kind, flashy, but substantial, -and based on indisputable realities, he had come back to Paris seven or -eight years before. The support of his patron, bringing official favor -with it in the wake of his insolent dollars, had opened a way for him in -spite of the triple barriers piled up by routine, jealousy and the just -rights of those who had been long awaiting their turn to enter. Whether -it was just or not, he was advanced over them all. Philippe had not -permitted himself to accept any honors or advantages he had not -deserved; but, knowing that he deserved them, he did not trouble himself -about the means by which he got them. He despised men too much not to -borrow their own contemptible weapons, when it was necessary, in order -to get the better of them. He did not despise a newspaper puff that -pierced people's ears like the brass instruments that used to accompany -the village tooth-pullers on their platforms. He was a great man for -fashionable exhibitions, first nights, varnishing-days, official galas. -He lent himself to sensational interviews. He himself wrote--one is -never served better than by oneself--and, through one or two examples, -showed those who contradicted him that he could handle the pen as well -as the knife. A counsel for amateurs! . . . Never be ambiguous! His way -of holding out his hand meant, "Alliance or war?" He allowed no means to -escape him by being neutral. - -At the same time, a habit of working desperately, with no more -consideration for himself than he had for others, an indifference to -risks, brilliant results that could not be denied, made the internes in -the hospital he directed his enthusiastic partisans. He indulged in rash -communications to the Academy that aroused the exasperated incredulity -of comfortably settled souls who did not like to be turned upside down: -Homeric jousts from which he almost always emerged with the decisive -word and always with the last one. - -He terrified the timid. He had no regard for individuals when the -interests of science or humanity seemed to him at stake. He would have -liked to experiment on criminals, destroy monsters, sterilize the -abnormal, undertake heroic operations on living subjects. He loathed -sentimentality. He did not give way to sympathy with his patients, and -he did not allow them to pity themselves. Their groans had no interest -for him. But when he was able to save them he did save them--harshly; he -cut down to the quick to cure the living man. He was hard of heart, but -his hands were gentle. People were afraid of him and they pursued him. -He fleeced the rich and asked nothing of the poor. - -He lived in a large way, for he had acquired the taste for luxury. He -could give it up, however, on a day's notice; but, leading this life, he -led it whole-heartedly. His wife was part of his luxury. He enjoyed them -both and he never demanded of them anything they could not give. He did -not ask Noémi to share in his intellectual life; he did not give her a -chance to do so. Noémi did not care; if she had the rest, she had, as -she thought, the important part. He had made up his mind that in any -case this was all that women ought to have. A woman who thought was a -cumbersome bit of furniture. - -Why, then, was he so immediately captivated by Annette? - -Through that which resembled himself. Through the quality in the Annette -of this period that was like himself, the quality he alone could -perceive. At the first crossing of their glances, as their first -responses struck, steel against steel, he said to himself, "She sees -these people as I see them. She's one of my kind." - -Of his kind? It scarcely seemed so, to judge by the facts. Annette had -fallen out of the social sphere into which Philippe had succeeded in -elbowing himself, and they had met each other, in passing, on one of the -rungs of the ladder. But at this particular moment they were on an equal -footing, they both felt that they were strangers in this world, -adversaries of this world, that they both really belonged to another -race, once mistress of the soil, but now dispossessed, scattered over -the earth and almost vanished. After all, who knows the mysteries of -races and their vicissitudes, that mingling of all, in the ultimate -future towards which, as it seems, humanity is moving for the final -triumph of mediocrity? . . . But it has its unexpected resurgences, and -sometimes the former master of the soil resumes his estate for a day. -Whether it was his estate or not, Philippe claimed it as his own. And in -this way he had just appropriated Annette. - - - - -XL - - -When Annette returned to her apartment again, with lowered head, heavy -with thought, she went to bed without speaking. She tried to make her -mind a blank, but she could not sleep. She had to struggle to escape -from a certain mental picture, for the moment she became drowsy the -picture appeared at the door of her imagination. To forget it she tried -to fix her mind on her everyday affairs: they did not interest her. Then -she appealed against the threatening invasion to an ally whom she -usually feared to invoke, because by doing so she ran the ride of -stirring up too many past troubles: Julien and the world of thoughts, -more fictitious than real, which her regrets and dreams had grouped -about the beloved name. They returned for a moment and fell back again, -frozen. She persisted in trying to grasp them by force. She held in her -arms only withered sheaves. A hot sun had dried up their sap. In her -desire to revive them Annette, with her feverish hands, only burned them -up. She was agitated, turning and turning her pillow. But she had to -sleep for the sake of to-morrow's work. She took a sleeping-powder and -fell into oblivion. But when she awoke after three or four hours, her -anxiety was still there. It seemed to her that even during her sleep it -had not left her. - -During the next day and the days that followed, her anxiety persisted. -She came and went, gave her lessons, talked, laughed as usual. The -well-equipped machine went on of itself. But her soul was troubled. - -One grey day, as she was crossing Paris, everything suddenly became -bright. On the other side of the street Philippe Villard was passing. -She went home filled with joy. - -When she made up her mind to get to the bottom of this joy she was -thunderstruck. It was as if she had discovered a cancer in herself. . . . -So once more she had been caught in the trap. Love? Love for a man who -could only be for her another cause for useless suffering, a man whom -she was sure was dangerous, heartless, a man who could not belong to -her, who belonged to someone else, a man she could not love because she -loved someone else. Someone else? Yes, yes, she still loved Julien. -Well, if she loved him, how was it possible for her to love another man? -She did love him. . . . But how, how could her heart give itself to two -persons at once? Give itself wholly to each without dividing itself? For -when she gave her heart Annette gave it completely. . . . She had a -feeling that she was prostituting herself. To be sure, to surrender her -body would have seemed to her less shameful than to surrender her heart -to two loves at once. Wasn't she sincere, loyal to herself? . . . Of -course she was. She did not know that she had more than one heart, that -she was more than one being. In the forest of a soul there co-exist -thickets of thoughts, jungles of desire, twenty different essences. -Ordinarily one does not distinguish them: they are asleep. But when the -wind passes over them their branches dash against one another. . . . The -clash of passions had long since stirred this multiplicity to life in -Annette. She was at once a dutiful and a passionately proud woman, a -passionate mother, a passionate mistress. Mistress? Mistresses? The -forest in the wind with its branches flung out toward all the points of -heaven. . . . Annette, humiliated by the oppression of the force that -was disposing of her without her consent, thought: "What is the use of -willing and struggling for years if one moment is enough to ruin -everything? Where does this force come from?" - -For she repudiated it, furiously, as something alien. Didn't she -recognize it as of her own substance? Ah, that was even more -overwhelming. How escape from herself? - -She was not the sort of woman who yields passively to an inner fatality -that she despised. She determined to stifle a feeling that mortified -her. And with the help of her work she would have succeeded had it not -been for Noémi. - -She received a letter in the large handwriting of this little person -who, although she had made a study of worldly elegance, was unable to -disguise the cold resolution that lay behind it. A few friendly lines -inviting her to dinner. Annette excused herself because of her work. -Noémi repeated the invitation, expressing this time the warm desire she -felt to see her again and leaving her to choose the evening. Annette, -determined not to risk a danger of which she had become aware, declined -the invitation again, pleading her extreme fatigue at the end of her -days. She thought the matter was settled, but the little Pandarus, who, -when he is bored and malicious, is one of the thousand forms of love, -left Noémi no peace until she had introduced Annette into her -sheepfold. And one evening when Annette, returned from her lessons, was -preparing dinner--the hour that idle people always choose to make their -calls--who should appear but Noémi, chirping, assuring her of her -eternal friendship. While Annette, embarrassed at appearing at such a -disadvantage, was beguiled by the affectionate manner of this woman in -whom she unconsciously loved the reflection of "the other one," she held -her ground, in spite of Noémi's entreaties, and absolutely refused to -dine with her. But she could not do less than promise to return her -call, carefully making sure of the hours when she would be certain to -find Noémi alone. Noémi perceived how anxious Annette was to avoid -Philippe; she put it down to timidity and a lack of sympathy with him. -Her own sympathy increased. When she was at home again she indiscreetly -poured out to Philippe an account of her call, dwelling, with the -charming perfidy of the best of friends, upon everything which, to her -mind, might tend to depreciate a woman in Philippe's eyes: the poverty, -the disorder, the odor of ink and cooking--in a word, Annette in the -kitchen. Philippe, who knew all about Annette's gallant history and who -knew still better the odor of poverty, made other reflections than those -he was expected to make, but he kept them to himself. - -It was not altogether by chance that Annette, a few days later, as she -was coming out of Noémi's house, met Philippe in the street on his way -home. As she had not expected to meet him, she felt she had a right not -to combat the secret joy that ran through her. They exchanged a few -words. While they stopped to talk, a young woman passed to whom Philippe -bowed. Annette recognized her. She was the intelligent actress who was -playing Maslova just then. Annette was attracted to her, and this -attraction was evident in her look. Philippe asked: "Do you know her?" - -"I have seen her," she said, "in _Resurrection_." - -"Ah," he replied, with a contemptuous curve of his mouth. - -"Don't you like her acting?" - -"Her acting isn't the point." - -"Is it the play then? You don't like it?" - -"No," said Philippe. And seeing that Annette was curious to know his -reasons, he added, "Let's walk a little way together, shall we? It's -rather unconventional, but conventions were not made for us." - -They walked along together. Annette was embarrassed and flattered. -Philippe talked about the play with a mixture of hostility and humor -such as Tolstoy himself--it was a fair enough turn of the wheel--had -often employed in regard to people he did not like. He interrupted -himself, amused at his severity, "I am not fair. . . . When I see a play -I see those who are watching it. I see under their membranes, and the -spectacle is not beautiful." - -"It is with some people," said Annette. - -"Yes, there are some people who have the gift of making the misery of -the world seem beautiful. This saves them the trouble of remedying it. -These good idealists manage to have many a sweet hour with the -misfortunes of others. They serve them as a means for artistic or -charitable emotions of the most tranquillizing kind, but they are of -even more service to the villains who exploit them. Their sentimentality -flies its protecting flag over patriotic leagues, leagues for -repopulation, the founding of missions, colonial wars and other -philanthropies. . . . The epoch of the teary eye! . . . There is no eye -that is colder and more self-interested! The epoch of the kind -employer--you have read Pierre Hamp?--who builds a church, a -slaughter-house, a hospital and a brothel near his factory! Their lives -are divided into two parts: one consists of talking about civilization, -progress, democracy, the other of the sordid exploitation and -destruction of the whole future of the world, the corruption of the -race, the annihilation of the other races of Asia and Africa. . . . -After this they go and melt with emotion over Maslova and take their -afternoon nap to the soft harmonies of Debussy. . . . Look out when the -awakening comes! Ferocious hatreds are piling up. The catastrophe is -coming. . . . So much the better! All their dirty medicine does is to -keep diseases going. Some day they will have to come to surgery." - -"Will the patient recover?" - -"I take away the disease. The patient has to take his chance!" - -A joke. Annette smiled. Philippe threw her a sidelong glance. "It -doesn't frighten you?" - -"I am not ill," said Annette. - -He stopped and looked at her. "No, you are not. In your presence one -breathes the fragrance of health. It frees me from my physical and moral -infections. The latter are the worst. Excuse my diatribe! But I've come -from a meeting, a dispute with a gang of hypocrites over the official -support of disease--that is, over hygiene. I was furious and suffocating -with disgust, and when I saw you with your clear eyes, walking along so -freely, with everything about you so proud and wholesome, I selfishly -drank in a whiff of your air. There! It's better now. Thank you." - -"So I'm promoted to the rank of a doctor. And after what you have just -been saying about them?" - -"Doctor, no. Medicine. Oxygen." - -"You have a direct way with people!" - -"This is the way I class them: inspiration, expiration, those who bring -you to life and those who kill you, whom you must kill." - -"Whom do you want to kill now?" - -"Now?" He took her up. "Don't you think I have enough to do with my -patients?" - -"No, no, I couldn't help saying that," replied Annette, laughing. "It -was my old classic blood. . . . But may I ask you with whom you were -angry when I met you?" - -"I should so much like to forget it, now that I'm with you. To put it -briefly, it was about a block of unsanitary houses that has been a -breeding-ground for cancer and tuberculosis ever since the time of Henry -IV. The finished product: eighty per cent infected during the last -twenty years. I had brought the matter before the sanitary board and -demanded radical measures, that the buildings should be expropriated and -torn down. They seemed to agree with me and asked me to draw up a -report. I drew up the report, went back and found that the oracles had -changed their minds. . . . An impressive report, dear and eminent -colleague, a fine document. We must think it over. We must look into -this. There is no doubt that these people have died, but were their -deaths really due to the houses they lived in? . . . One of them brings -me some certificates (manufactured how?) proving, with the complicity of -various families who had been bribed by the owner, that one man had -already bought his ticket to the cemetery when he came and settled in -the waiting-room, that in another case the cancer was the result of an -accident. Another contests the idea that old houses are less sanitary -than new ones and says they are larger and more airy; he gives his own -as an example. . . . We must make things sanitary, not destroy. -Moderation in all things. A good cleaning will be enough; the owner -promises to have them disinfected. . . . Besides, we are poor, our -pockets are empty, we haven't the money to expropriate them. . . . Ah! -if it were a question of making a new gun! . . . But, after all, cancer -kills more surely than a gun. . . . To finish the farce, one of the -augurs ended by talking about beauty. It seems that since these -buildings belonged to the period of Henry IV, they ought to be preserved -for the sake of history and art. . . . I am fond of art myself, and I -can show you some pictures in my own house, ancient and modern both; but -age (unless we are talking about beautiful Madame So-and-So) is not the -mark of beauty; and, beautiful or not, I shall never admit that the past -should poison the present. Of all hypocrisies, the aesthetic hypocrisy -revolts me the most, for it tries to create nobility out of its own -barrenness. So I said some pretty stiff things on that score. . . . In -the middle of the discussion a colleague motioned to me, drew me aside -and said, 'Don't you know that old beetle who feeds on the corpses -of his tenants is an intimate friend of the president of that great -committee of commerce and food-supply which brings about elections and -coalitions, one of those grizzled dignitaries who rule over our -democratic banquets and conventions, the invisible man out of whom the -rabble constructs the tottering masonry--freemasonry--of our Republic? -This friend of the people doesn't want to have the people turned out of -their tomb . . . because, and this is the best of all . . . because of -his philanthropy. . . .' At the end they hand me a petition from the -tenants, drawn up in fine style, protesting against this desire to turn -them out of their quarters! What do you expect me to do against all -these people? The augurs laugh, they say. So I laughed. But I added that -one shouldn't keep a good joke to oneself, that I was not an egoist, and -that I intended to share it to-morrow with the readers of the _Matin_. -They cried out at this, but I shall do as I said. I know what to expect; -every knife will be raised against me. . . . The disciples of -Hippocrates, to whom I've just given a good drubbing, will miss no -chance. They have their own way of getting back at me. But, as you say, -'War,' my Lady Warrior! How about the other evening at Solange's? All -this seems to amuse you?" - -"Yes, it's splendid. I like this, fighting against injustice. I should -have liked to be a man." - -"There is no need to be a man. You have done your share. . . ." - -"I have never complained of my share in the struggle. It's only the -suffocation. Our lot is to fight in a cave, but you fight in the open -air, on a mountain-top." - -"Ah! that quivering of the nostrils! A horse sniffing the powder. I've -seen that already. I noticed it the other evening." - -"You laughed at me the other evening." - -"Not at all. It was too much like myself for me to laugh." - -"You harassed me; you started me off." - -"Yes, I saw it at once. . . . I wasn't mistaken. . . ." "Just the same, -you were contemptuous enough in the beginning." - -"How the devil could I have expected to find you, to find you at -Solange's house?" - -"Well, but what about yourself? Why were you there?" - -"It's another matter with me." - -"A liking for sentimentality?" - -"It's your turn to tease. . . . Poor Solange! . . . No, don't let's talk -about her. I know everything that can be said. But Solange is taboo." - -She did not question him, but she looked at him. - -"I'll tell you some other time. . . . Yes, I owe her a great deal." - -They had come to a stop. They were about to separate. Annette smiled. -"You are not as bad as you seem." - -"And perhaps you're not as good!" - -"That makes an average." - -He looked her directly in the eyes. "Will you?" - -He was no longer joking. The blood streamed into Annette's cheeks, and -she could not find a way to reply. Philippe's eyes held her and would -not let her go. Was he saying something? Was he not saying anything? On -his lips she read, "I want you." - -He bowed and went on. - - - - -XLI - - -Annette remained alone in a torrent of flame. She walked straight ahead -and ten minutes later she found herself at the point from which she had -started. Without realizing it, she had made the complete circuit of the -iron fence of the Luxembourg Gardens. She came to herself to find that -she was all on fire, with the three flaming words engraved on a black -background. She made an effort to efface them. Had he uttered them? . . . -She saw again the impassive face, she tried to disbelieve it. But the -imprint was there, and her resistance weakened and suddenly gave way. -Well, it was decreed. . . . She knew it in advance. . . Instead of -revolting, as she would have thought of doing an hour before, she felt -relieved. The die was cast. . . . - -She went home with her mind clear, no longer feverish. She had decided. -She knew that whatever Philippe wished he would do, and what Philippe -wished she wished also. She was free, nothing held her back. . . . The -thought of Noémi? She owed her only one thing, the truth. She would not -lie. She would take what belonged to her. . . . What belonged to her? -The other woman's husband. . . . But blind passion whispered to her that -Noémi had stolen him from her. - -She did nothing to hasten the inevitable. She was sure that Philippe -would come. She waited. - -He came. He had chosen the hour when he knew that she would be alone. - -As she went to open the door she was seized with terror. But it had to -be as it was. She opened the door, revealing nothing of what she felt, -unless her paleness did so. He entered the room. They remained standing -before each other, a few steps apart, their heads lowered; then he -looked at her with his serious eyes. After a silence he said, "I love -you, Rivière." - -And this name of Rivière in his mouth brought up the image of a stream -of water. - -Annette, trembling, motionless, replied, "I don't know whether I love -you. I don't think I do, but I know that I am yours." - -The gleam of a smile passed over Philippe's grave face. "Good," he said. -"You don't lie. Neither do I." - -He took a step towards her. She drew back instinctively and found -herself leaning against the wall of the room, defenceless, the palms of -her hands pressed out behind her, and her legs gave way beneath her. He -had stopped and he looked at her. "Don't be afraid," he said. There was -something tender in his hard look. - -Like a captive who accepts her fate calmly, she said, with a shadow of -scorn, "What do you want of me? Is it my body you want? I will not -dispute with you over that. Is that the only thing you want?" - -He took another step and sat down on a low chair at her feet. His cheek -brushed her dress. He took Annette's hand, which she limply abandoned to -him. He breathed in its fragrance, passed his lips over the fingertips -and, bending down, placed it on his head, on his eyes. "This is what I -want." - -Under her fingers, Annette felt the rough, bushy hair, the swelling of -the forehead and the beating temples. This imperious man was placing -himself under her protection. She leaned towards him and he raised his -face. It was their first kiss. - -His arms encircled Annette, who had dropped on her knees beside him and -no longer resisted, as if she had no breath left, and Philippe, violent -as he was, had no thought of taking advantage of his victory. "I want -everything," he said, "all of you, mistress, friend, companion--my woman -altogether." - -Annette extricated herself. Noémi's image had risen before her. A -moment before it had been she who had driven her from her consciousness. -But that Philippe should do the same thing wounded her in a way, wounded -her in that instinctive freemasonry of women who, even as enemies, find -themselves leagued against the aggressiveness of man--one body in -common. - -"You cannot," said Annette. "You belong to another." - -He shrugged his shoulders. "There's nothing of me that she possesses." - -"She has your name and your faith." - -"What does the name matter? You have the rest." - -"I don't care about the name, but I must have your faith. I give it and -I ask for it." - -"I am ready to give it to you." - -But Annette, who had asked for it, felt a certain revolt when it was -offered to her. "No! no! Do you mean to take it away from her who has -shared your life for years and give it to me whom you have only seen -three times?" - -"It has not required three times for me to see you." - -"You don't know me." - -"I do know you. I have learned to see into life quickly. Life goes by -and no moment ever appears twice. You must make up your mind on the spot -or you can never make it up. You are passing, Rivière, and if I do not -take you I lose you. I take you." - -"You may be making a mistake." - -"Perhaps. I know that when one makes a decision one often makes a -mistake. But in not deciding one always makes a mistake. I should never -forgive myself the error of having seen you without determining to -possess you." - -"What do you know about me?" - -"More than you think. I know that you have been rich and that you are -poor, that you had a youth filled with all the pleasures of wealth and -that you were ruined and cast out of your world, that you have struggled -and not weakened. I know what your struggle has been, for I underwent it -myself, every day, for thirty years of my life, a hand-to-hand struggle, -and twenty times I was on the point of giving in. You have held out. As -for me, I was used to it. I have known abject poverty from the cradle. -You had a thin skin, and you were pampered and made much of. You did not -yield. You have never accepted any shameful compromise. You never tried -to escape the struggle by any feminine means, seduction or the honest -expedient of a marriage for money." - -"Do you imagine it has been offered to me so many times?" - -"That is because they knew very well, even the meanest of them, that you -are not a person to be bought by contract." - -"Inalienable, yes." - -"I know that after having loved and had a child you refused to be the -wife of your child's father. I do not need to know the reasons of your -heart. But I do know that in the face of a cowardly society, you dared -to demand, not the right to enjoy, but the right to suffer, the right to -have a son and bring him up, in your poverty, alone. It was nothing to -have demanded this right, but you have exercised it, all by yourself, -for thirteen years. And knowing, through my own experience, what these -thirteen years mean in suffering and daily effort, I see you before me, -intact, straight, proud, without a trace of wear and tear. You have -escaped two defeats, that of failure and that of bitterness . . . I -myself have not escaped the mark of the latter. . . . I am a connoisseur -of the battle of life. I know what the quality of a character like yours -is worth. That serious smile, those clear eyes, the calm line of the -lids, the loyalty of those hands, that tranquil harmony--and, under it -all, the burning fire, the joyous thrill of the struggle, even if one is -beaten. (It doesn't seem to matter! One goes on fighting . . .) Do you -suppose that a man like myself does not know the value of a woman like -you? Or that, knowing it, he should not be ready for anything to win -it? . . . Rivière, I want you. I need you. Listen! I am not trying to -deceive you. Although I desire your good, I do not want you for your own -good, but for my own. I am not offering you any advantages, only more -ordeals. . . . You don't know about my life. . . . Sit down here beside -me, my beauty of the eyebrows!" - -Seated on the floor, she raised her eyes to his. He held her two hands -in a firm clasp while he talked to her. "I have a name, I have success, -I have money and everything it gives. But you don't know how I got them -or how I keep them. I took them by force and I hold them by force. I -compelled my fate, if there is a fate. I succeeded in spite of things -and in spite of men. And I have never tried, or desired, to win -forgiveness for my success by bandaging the wounded self-esteem and the -interests that have been trampled upon as I passed. My dear colleagues -expect that success at least will have its narcotic effect upon me. -There hasn't been any such effect. They have tried in vain to flatter -me; they feel that I am not and never will be one of them. I can't -forget what I have seen on the other side of the fence, the innumerable -rascalities and iniquities. I have had time to meditate on the social -lies for which the best watchdog has always been the intellectual class, -in spite of what it pretends and what people expect from it. Apart from -a few knowing fellows who, where their art and thought are in question, -have the reputation of respecting nothing, but who, outside their own -bailiwick, tip their hats very politely to the reigning imbecility. I -have had the conspicuous folly never to pay court to it. At this very -moment I am planning an attack upon some of their sacred impostures, -impostures that condemn thousands of beings to poverty and endless -misery. I am going to make the three heads of Cerberus howl, the three -hypocrisies of morality, patriotism and religion. I shall tell you all -about it later. I shall be beaten, too, I know. But I shall fight on -just the same, for the joy of it, for the difficulty, and because it has -to be done. . . . You see why your words, the other evening, brought me -a message you never foresaw. Your words are mine. The mouth ought to be -mine." - -Annette gave it to him. He took her forehead and her Cheeks tenderly in -his strong hands. "Rivière, I need you. I never expected to find you. -Now that I have you I shall hold you." - -"Hold me firmly! I am afraid I may escape." - -"I know how to keep you. I offer you my hard life, my enemies, my -dangers." - -"Yes, you know me. But none of this can be mine. It is not yours to -dispose of. It belongs to your Noémi." - -"What would she do with it? She doesn't want to know anything about it. -She ignores all truth, everything that is painful in life." - -Annette looked at Philippe, and he read in her eyes the question she -withheld. - -"You are thinking, 'Why did he marry her, then?' The woman lies, yes, I -know it. Her whole body is a lie, from the roots of her hair to the tips -of her nails. Well, the odd thing is that I took her for that very -reason. It is almost the reason why I love her. When falsehood is as -perfect an art as that it deserves a good theatre. . . . (Don't we know -that the theatre, that almost all art, lies, except in the case of a few -freaks who bewilder their confrères; then the confrères say that they -are not artists, that they ruin the trade.) If the world is a lie, at -least we have the right to demand that the lie shall be pleasant. -Everything considered, I prefer for my satisfaction and my society those -who lie prettily. They don't take me in. I see through them. Noémi's -grace is as artificial as her sentiments. But she makes a success of it. -She does me credit. I enjoy it when I come home in the evening with my -eyes befouled by the cutting up of spoiled meat. She is like laughing -water. I bathe in it. Let her lie! It is of no importance. If she spoke -the truth she would have nothing to say." - -"You are hard. She loves you." - -"No doubt, and I love her too." - -"If you love her, why do you need me?" - -"I love her in her own way." - -"That's a great deal." - -"A great deal for her, perhaps. It's not much for me." - -"But can I give you what she gives you?" - -"You are not a toy." - -"I should like to be a toy, too. Life is a game." - -"Yes, but you believe in it. You are one of those players who take the -game seriously." - -"So are you." - -"Because I wish to do so." - -"How do you know that I too don't wish to do so?" - -"Well, let's wish together!" - -"I don't want a happiness that is built on ruins. I have suffered. I -don't want to cause suffering." - -"All life is bought with suffering. Every happiness in nature is built -upon ruins. In the end everything is ruined. At least we can have built -something!" - -"I can't make up my mind to sacrifice another person. Poor little -Noémi!" - -"She would have less pity if she had you under her feet." - -"I suppose so. But she loves you, and to me it is a crime to kill a -love." - -"Whether you wished it or not, it's done now. Your presence has killed -it." - -"You think of nothing but yourself." - -"No one thinks of anything but himself in love." - -"No, no, that's not true. I think of myself, of you, of the woman who -loves you, of everything that you love and everything that I love. I -should like my love to be good and full of joy for everyone." - -"Love is a duel. If you look to the right or the left you are lost. Look -straight before you into your adversary's eyes." - -"My adversary?" - -"I." - -"You are indeed, but I don't fear you. But Noémi is not my adversary. -She has done me no harm. Can I come into her life and destroy it?" - -"Would it be better to lie to her?" - -"Deceive her? Far better to destroy her! . . . Or destroy me. Renounce." - -"You will not renounce." - -"How do you know?" - -"Women like you never renounce through weakness." - -"Why shouldn't it be through strength?" - -"I will not admit that there is any strength in abdicating. I love you -and you love me. I defy you to renounce." - -"Don't defy me!" - -"You love me." - -"I love you." - -"Well?" - -"Well, what you say is true, I can't, I can't renounce." - -"Then?" - -"Then so be it!" - - - - -XLII - - -They had not yet said anything to the "other woman." - -Annette had sworn to herself that she would not belong to Philippe till -he had spoken to Noémi. But the strength of passion had been too much -for her resolution. No one appoints the hour for passion. It seizes its -own. And now it was Annette who restrained Philippe. She dreaded his -implacability. - -Philippe would not have scrupled to leave Noémi in ignorance. He did -not respect her enough to feel that he owed her the truth. But if he was -obliged to tell it, he meant to tell it without stopping to consider -her. He was a terrible man, terribly without kindness when a passion had -seized upon him. Nothing else existed. The love that he had felt for -Noémi was that of a master for a valuable slave, and indeed she had -never been anything more than this for him. Like many women she had -adapted herself to this; when the slave holds the master nothing exceeds -her power. She is everything until the day comes when she ceases to be -anything. Noémi knew this, but she felt confident in her youth and her -charm for many more years. After us the deluge! Besides, she had been on -the watch. She had known of Philippe's passing infidelities. She had not -attached much importance to them because she had wisely realized that -they were momentary. She simply consoled herself with the luxury of -small revenges of which she said nothing to him. She had deceived him in -a temper on one occasion, one sole occasion when Philippe's -unfaithfulness had stung her more than usual. She had enjoyed it very -little; she had even been rather disgusted. But no matter, they were -quits. Afterwards she had been more affectionate to her husband than -before. It gave her satisfaction to say to herself, as she embraced him, -"My dear, I am lying to you. This will teach you! You're it, this time!" - -The fear she would have had of Philippe, if he had learned the truth, -added to the interest. Philippe knew nothing definite, no facts, but he -read the lie in her eyes. Whether Noémi had deceived him or not, he -knew she was thinking about it. And she saw a flash pass through his -eyes; his hands might have crushed her. But he knew nothing; he would -never know anything; she closed her eyes with the languorous air of a -dove. - -He said brutally, "Look at me." - -She had time to assume an innocent expression. He knew it was false--and -he did not resist it. - -He was not angry with her, but if he had caught her in the act he would -have broken her back. He did not expect from her what she could not give -him, frankness and faithfulness. Since she pleased him, and as long as -she pleased him, all was well. But he considered himself free to break -with her when she no longer pleased him. - -Annette had more scruples. She was a woman, and she knew better what was -going on in Noémi's heart. Noémi might be false and vain and she might -deceive Philippe, but she loved him. No, for her it was not just a game, -as he had said it was. She was bound to him as if he were a part of her -own flesh, not merely by the fiery bond of sensual pleasure, but from -the bottom of her heart, for good or evil. Good and evil. In love -nothing counts but the strength of love, that imperious magnet that -draws soul and body together, one being into another being. She clung to -him as the aim and purpose of her life, as what she had wanted, wanted, -wanted through long years. A woman does not always know why she has -fallen in love. But because she has fallen in love she cannot liberate -herself. She has expended too much of her strength and her desire to be -able to transfer them to another object. She lives like a parasite on -the being she has chosen. It would be necessary to cut into them both to -separate them. - -A suspicion began to eat its way into Noémi. A mere nothing, at first, -the nibbling of a mouse. There was no change in their life. Philippe, -hard as ever, always in a hurry, with little desire to talk, listened to -her without hearing her, absorbed, with a flame in his eyes. Just at -this time he was deep in a very disagreeable affair, a bitter -controversy in which he had involved himself. Noémi knew about it, but -the last thing she wanted was to be kept informed of these bothersome -matters. When he was in the midst of them he thought of nothing else, -and he neglected her. She had only to wait and let him fast; he would -come back to her later with more appetite than ever. But he was fasting -too long now! At other times she had amused herself by enticing him in a -way that moved Philippe to rebuff her, for it annoyed him to be -distracted when he was engrossed in something; but although she had -protested loudly at his rudeness she had not been angry. She had been -like a child playing with a fire-cracker; the more noise it made the -more it diverted her. But this time, calamitously, the fire-cracker had -not gone off. . . . Noémi's provocations had met with nothing but -indifference. Philippe did not even notice them. . . . The mouse of her -suspicion went away, came back, took up its abode in her. It nibbled so -far that it reached the quick. There came a day when Noémi cried out. - -They were both in bed, one morning, side by side. His eyes were open. -She had just awakened, but she pretended to be asleep and she watched -him. Instinctively she felt that the reflection of another face was -passing over this one. (For, unaware of it as we may be, the outer -casing of the mind is moulded by the image that dwells in it.) Her -jealous attention was instantly caught. From under her lowered lids her -eyes pierced him like a gimlet as she lay there, motionless, continuing -to breathe regularly as if she were sleeping; she keenly studied this -man who was so far away, so near, this man who belonged to her, this -eternal stranger whose thigh was touching her own and between whom and -herself lay an impassable world. No, she was not mistaken, there was some -other anxiety in his mind aside from his ideas. . . . Anxiety? . . . She -saw him smile. He was thinking of another woman. To snatch him -away from this phantom, to test her own power, she groaned as if she was -dreaming and rolled over against him. He drew away from this body that -was seeking him, assured himself that she was asleep, rose noiselessly, -dressed and went out. She had not moved. . . . But the door was not -closed before she sat up in bed with her face distorted. She beat her -breasts with her little fists, stifling a cry of rage and anguish. - -From this moment she was a huntress. Tense, quivering, she looked about, -she sought the scent. The nails of her clenched hands hurt her; she was -burning to tear the enemy to pieces. . . . Oh, silently, gently. . . . -To tear the woman's heart out. . . . But she could not find this heart. -Where was it hidden? She beat the woods, explored with feverish -minuteness the circle of his acquaintances. With her painted, youthful -smile hiding her sharp teeth, she did not miss the least alteration of -Philippe's face in the presence of the other sex, while she watched the -hands, the eyes, the vocal inflections of every one of them, while the -hunting-dogs that she carried in her heart were constantly casting about -for the scent. . . . But the trail was always false and the animal -escaped. - -The strange aberration persisted which, from the beginning, had led her -to place Annette outside the field of her suspicions. For weeks she had -forgotten her. Annette never appeared. She felt guilty and, far from -being proud, she was humiliated at the thought of Noémi because of her -secret victory, her stolen victory. She avoided any reappearance at the -Villards' house, and she would have found plenty of excuses if Noémi -had expressed any desire to see her again. But Noémi expressed nothing -of the kind; she had too much on her mind to remember Annette. - -She had tried in van to convince herself that Philippe's caprice would -pass. But, far from passing, the all too evident symptoms of his -disaffection became even more marked: a cold inattention to what she -said and how she looked, to the very presence of his little wife, at -times a complete indifference--even when Noémi tried to force the fact -of her existence upon him, a bored weariness, an unconcealed disgust -that avoided any importunate contact. . . . She quivered with rage and -slighted love! . . . She could not hide from herself any longer the -seriousness of this misfortune. She became frantic. But she was careful -always to force herself not to show it. . . . Always, always to be gay, -sure of herself and of him, always to keep offering him the bait which -he would not even look at! She was eating her heart out. . . . And -against this intangible enemy there rose within her a furious hatred. -Unable as she was to lay hold of her, she could have beaten her own head -against the wall. She had watched everyone, everyone, in vain--everyone -but Annette. Annette was the last person she would have thought of. - -And it was Annette who betrayed herself. - -She was walking along the street when, twenty steps away, she saw Noémi -coming towards her. Noémi did not see her. She was walking with her -eyes empty, her head bent; her pretty face was pale and looked older and -careworn. She was not conscious of herself at this, moment or of -anything about her; for days she had been like a monomaniac who, with a -dejected rage, turns the grindstone of a fixed idea. Annette was shocked -at the sight of her. She might have passed close beside her without being -noticed, or have retraced her steps, but in her clumsy haste she left -the sidewalk and crossed the street. This movement broke the continuous -flow of the passing people and mechanically attracted Noémi's -attention. She recognized Annette, who was trying to avoid her, and, -following her with her eyes, she saw Annette furtively glance at her -from the other side of the street and then turn her head away. It was -like a blinding light. . . . She was the woman! - -She stopped with her heart in her mouth, her nails driven into the palms -of her hands, clenching her teeth, bristling like a cat with its back -arched; there was murder in her eyes. The look of a passer-by reminded -her that she was in a world where people live by falsehood, the world -which, for once, she had left. She returned to it. But ten steps farther -on she laughed cruelly. She had caught her. . . . - - - - -XLIII - - -Annette had been completely upset by the sight of Noémi. Ever since she -had surrendered herself she had been tormented by remorse. Not that she -considered herself at fault for loving the man who loved her: their love -was true, it was healthy, it was strong. It had no need of excuse or -pretence. No social convention weighed in her mind against it. In the -fever of her passion she would not even admit that she had any duty -towards Noémi. She was Philippe's real wife. She could not recognize -the other one who had not been able to share in his work and his -struggles and make him happy. But all this assurance did not alter the -fact that someone else paid the price of her own happiness, that she had -destroyed the happiness of another. She had tried to believe that Noémi -was too frivolous to suffer very much and that she would not find it -very hard to give him up. But she knew this was not so, and all she -could do was to avoid thinking of Noémi. The self-centredness of the -first days of passion had made this possible. - -But it was no longer possible now that she had met Noémi. Annette had -the unfortunate gift of being able to pass outside herself and enter -sympathetically, in spite of her own passions, into the passions of -others--especially into their sufferings, which a glance revealed to -her. . . . - -She went home almost as much obsessed as Noémi by the anxiety that was -devouring her. She could not satisfy herself with words; she could not -fortify herself with the rights of love. Noémi, too, was in love, and -Noémi was suffering. Has the love that suffers less rights than the -love that causes the suffering? It is not a question of rights. One of -the two must suffer, she or I! - -She! Annette's passion left her no choice. . . . But it was far from -pleasant. - -At least this suffering should not be aggravated! It was wrong to -prolong it as they did, to let the wound grow worse without applying a -firm hand to it, operating upon it, dressing it. To dodge the frank -confession, to throw upon Noémi all the misery of discovering her -misfortune, was cowardly and cruel. From the very first day Annette had -insisted to Philippe, "I am unwilling to conceal myself." Then how had -she allowed herself to slip from day to day into this undignified -situation? . . . It was her own faint-heartedness all the time. - -"We must speak," she said to Philippe. - -But the moment Philippe was willing to speak she prevented him. She was -afraid of his brutal frankness. He threw away like a squeezed lemon what -he no longer loved. His old bonds annoyed him. "Come," he said, "let's -make an end of it." - -And Annette replied, "No, no, not to-day." She saw the suffering he was -going to cause. Gracious heavens! How painful a thing it was to destroy -a heart! - -Philippe had plenty of other things to think about! His days were filled -by an implacable warfare against public opinion and a press that was -aroused against him. This was no time for Annette to bother him with her -own troubles. He was engaged in a perilous campaign. He had taken the -initiative in a league for birth-control. He abhorred the shameless -hypocrisy of the ruling bourgeoisie who, without the slightest interest -in improving the hygiene or alleviating the poverty of the -working-classes, were only interested in increasing their numbers, so -that there would be plenty of fodder for factory and cannon. So far as -they are concerned, they are careful not to threaten their prosperity -and complicate their life by having too many children themselves. But -they are not at all disturbed if a badly regulated birth-rate -perpetuates poverty, sickness and slavery among the common people. They -make a national and religious duty of this. Philippe was well aware of -the fury he would arouse, but no danger had ever stopped him. He rushed -straight into them, though they were greater than he expected. - -He had made himself hated by a multitude: first by his colleagues, the -pontiffs, whose vanity, doctrines and interests were wounded, then by -the rivals he supplanted and even some of his own adherents, to whom he -had not hesitated to tell the unvarnished truth. For he was not the man -to exchange easy compliments with people who praised him, and gratitude -was the least of his faults. He took what was due to him and he gave -only what he thought was deserved--which was not very much. Solange -alone excepted, the title of benefactor did not greatly impress him. No -favoritism! So he could only expect to be attacked hard and defended -weakly. He embarrassed the manœuvres of the profiteers of the ideal. -Every time some noble, philanthropic, filibustering scheme was -organized, they could be sure that he would place himself in opposition -to it. He took a scandalous pleasure in punching the noses of the -virtuous at their sly tricks. In this way he had earned in respectable -quarters, the (_sotto voce_) reputation of a bad character, a destroyer, -an anarchist. These whispers had not yet ventured as far as the public -ear--the monstrous ear of _Pasquino_, the slanderous press. They were -awaiting the right moment. _Eccolo_! The beautiful occasion had -come! . . . It was an explosion of patriotic anger. All the papers took -part in it. The echo of the public indignation reached Parliament, where -immortal words were pronounced vindicating the right of the poor to a -plentiful family. A few exalted souls proposed a law that would deal -rigorously with all propaganda that tended directly or indirectly to -reduce the population. The exaggerations of a free-and-easy press, in -which the egoism of the pleasure-lover took precedence over all -humanitarian reasons, furnished arguments to discredit the cause. -Philippe found his adherents among the enemies of society. To every -volley he replied straightforwardly himself in one of the great -newspapers. But there was danger that this tribune would fail him, for -letters of protest flooded the paper. He gave lectures; he spoke at -riotous meetings. His vehemence equalled that of his opponents. They -were on the watch for some imprudent utterance that would enable them to -overpower him. But this formidable wrestler remained the master of his -passions and did not allow himself to be carried an inch beyond what he -wanted to say. He achieved an enormous notoriety; he was all the rage -with some and an object of scorn and hatred to others. He found it easy -to breathe in the dust of the combat. - -In the midst of this tempest of what account was Noémi? - - - - -XLIV - - -Noémi hastened homewards. She was remembering Philippe's first meeting -with Annette, when she had been present--her own stupidity and their -treachery. She was furious. Scarcely had she found herself between the -walls of her apartment than she gave way to her rage. It was like a -water-spout. In the twinkling of an eye everything was laid waste. -Anyone who saw her, weeping, convulsed, would have had difficulty in -recognizing her, with her pretty face distorted with anger, biting and -tearing her handkerchief, making havoc of the papers on her husband's -writing-table, avenging her suffering on the little dog that ran to her -to be petted and the paroquet she was ready to strangle. . . . But she -had taken care to lock herself in. The rôle of Fury should certainly be -played in private. It was not beautifying. It made her look hard, old -and worn out. But to see herself in the mirror, without witnesses, ugly -and wicked, did not displease her; it almost gave her comfort. This, -too, was a form of vengeance. She began to pity herself and her face, -and, distracted from her violence by this compassion, she rolled on the -carpet and sobbed loudly. . . . This could not last long, for Philippe -would be coming in; she must hurry, take double mouthfuls, weep quickly, -weep for all she was worth. . . . She continued to sob in great gusts, -but the worst part of the storm was already over. The little dog -returned, unresentfully, and licked her ear. She hugged him, moaning, -and sitting on the carpet petted one of his feet and fell silent. She -was thinking. Suddenly, with her mind made up, she rose to her feet, -fastened up the hair that had fallen over her eyes, picked up the -objects that were strewn about the room, rearranged the scattered -papers, carefully composed her face and her dress. Then she waited. - -Philippe found her calm and appreciative. At first she tried the -simplest weapons. In the course of their talk she innocently let fall a -few offensive words about her detested rival. In a sweet voice she said -two or three atrocious things about Annette--about her outward -appearance, of course. The moral question was secondary; even when the -spirit is what one loves, it is the body that makes love. Noémi was -expert in finding in a woman's beauty the things that make her seem -ugly, things which, once they have been seen, cannot be forgotten. This -time she surpassed herself. To poison the image of the rival in the eyes -of a lover is an inspiring task. . . . Philippe never flinched. - -Then she changed her tactics. She defended Annette against various bits -of gossip; she praised her virtues. (Eulogies have no consequences!) She -tried to make him talk, to make him take off his mask, to open battle -with her on the field where she was awaiting him. But Philippe remained -as indifferent to the good things she said as to the evil. - -She brought into action all her amorous allurements. She tried to arouse -Philippe's jealousy; she threatened, laughingly, to pay him back if he -ever deceived her and to pay him double. He pleaded a business -engagement and got up to go. - -Then anger seized her again. She cried out that she knew everything, -that he was Annette's lover. She threatened him, upbraided him, besought -him, talked about killing herself. He shrugged his shoulders and, -turning his back, walked to the door without a word. She ran after him, -caught him by the arms, forced him to turn around and, with her face -against his, in an altered voice, said, "Philippe! . . . You don't love -me any longer. . . ." - -He looked her in the eyes and said, "No!" Then he went out. - -If Noémi had been distracted, she now became possessed. For hours her -head whirled with insane fury. She thought of every absurd, ferocious -means of avenging herself. To kill Philippe. To kill Annette. To kill -herself. To dishonor Philippe. To defame Annette. To make Annette suffer. -To throw vitriol over Annette. . . . What joy to disfigure her! . . . -To strike at her through her honor. To strike at her through her -child. To write, send anonymous letters. . . . Feverishly she scribbled -a few lines, tore them up, began again, tore them up again. . . . She -was just as ready to set fire to the house. - -But she did not do so. Calming herself gradually, she collected her -strength and the true genius of a woman in love came into play. - -She saw plainly that she could do nothing with Philippe directly. He -would pay her for this some day! . . . But for the moment he was -inaccessible. Consequently, she must deal with Annette. . . . She went -to see Annette. - -She did not know what she was going to do. She was ready for anything. -She had taken her revolver in her hand-bag. On the way she rehearsed in -her mind scenes that she later discarded. For her instinct led her to -foresee Annette's replies and correct her plan in accordance with them. -Even at the last moment she changed everything. A flood of rage rose in -her as she climbed the stairs, panting, almost running; and through the -material of the bag she clenched the weapon in her fist. But when the -door opened and she found herself before Annette, she understood at a -glance. . . . One gesture, one word of violence, would exasperate -Annette, and she would be all the more implacable in following her -passion. - -All trace of Noémi's anger instantly disappeared. And red, as if she -were out of breath from having climbed the stairs too quickly, she flung -herself, laughing, on Annette's neck. Surprised at this outburst, -annoyed by this embrace, Annette kept her reserved manner. The other, -once in the apartment, walked unceremoniously into the bedroom and -rapidly assured herself that Philippe was not there. Then she sat down -on the arm of the chair and addressed little, tender words to Annette, -who stood stiffly beside her. As she talked she even passed one arm -about Annette's waist and played with her collar. Suddenly she -burst into tears. . . . At first Annette thought she was still -pretending. . . . But, no! This was serious; these were real -tears. . . . - -"Noémi, what is the matter with you?" - -With her face pressed against Annette's breast, she did not answer; she -continued to weep. Annette, bending over this great grief, tried to calm -her. Finally Noémi raised her head and moaned through her sobs: "Give -him back to me." - -"Who?" asked Annette, startled. - -"You know!" - -"But . . ." - -"You know, you know! I know you love him and I know he loves you. . . . -Why did you take him away from me?" - -More tears. Annette, with stricken heart, heard Noémi plaintively -recall the confidence, the affection, she had shown her, and she could -not answer, for she was reproaching herself; and these sad reproaches, -which had no violence in them, struck her heart. But when Noémi said -bitterly that Annette had abused her friendship to deceive her, she -tried to clear herself, saying that love had come in spite of her and -had overpowered her. There was nothing pleasant for Noémi in these -confessions, and she endeavored to turn them aside; she pretended to -help Annette to justify herself and seemed to believe that Philippe was -chiefly to blame. She spoke of him in the most outrageous way to assuage -her own bitterness and make him odious or at least suspect in Annette's -eyes. But the latter rose to his defence. She would not allow anyone to -accuse Philippe of being the aggressor. He had been frank. She, she -alone, had committed the error of not permitting him to confess. Then -Noémi, filled with hatred, redoubled her accusations. Annette opposed -her. The dispute grew bitter. One would have said that, of the two, -Annette was Philippe's real wife. And Noémi seemed suddenly to become -aware of this. She lost all her discretion and cried out in a new rage, -"I forbid you to speak to him! I forbid you! He is mine." - -Annette, shrugging her shoulders, said, "He belongs neither to you nor -to me. He belongs to himself." - -"He is mine," Noémi repeated passionately. "I shall keep him." She was -claiming her rights. - -"There are no rights in love," said Annette, harshly. - -"He is mine," Noémi cried again. "I shall keep him." - -"I am his," Annette replied. "You have kept nothing." - -The two women glared at each other with hatred in their eyes, Annette -steeled in egoism and hardness, Noémi burning to strike Annette. She -hated every inch of her, from her head to her feet. She wanted to insult -her ugliness, lash her with the cruellest words, the most irreparable -words. It would have been such a satisfaction. But she stopped short; -she would have lost too much! - -Stooping down quickly to pick up the bag that had fallen at her feet, -she pulled out the revolver and turned it . . . against whom? . . . She -did not know yet. . . . Against herself! . . . At first it was a feint, -but when Annette flung herself upon her to seize her arm what had been -pretence became real. The two women struggled; Noémi fell upon her -knees with Annette bending over her. It was not easy to restrain the -desperate little creature. She really meant to kill herself now. . . . -Although, if the weapon had touched Annette's bosom, with what delight -she would have fired at her. . . . But Annette struck her hand aside, -the gun went off, the bullet lodged in the wall. And Noémi never knew -which of the two she had aimed at. . . . - -She had dropped the weapon and she struggled no more. The nervous -reaction had set in. She fell now, sobbing and prostrated, at Annette's -feet: she was in hysterics. From the first Annette had suspected -intuitively that Noémi was acting a part . . . up to a certain point. -(But does one ever know just to what point?) And she had been dully -irritated by this nonsense about suicide. . . . But how could she doubt -the suffering of this poor little broken thing? She struggled to remain -hard, to turn away, but she could not; she was ashamed of her suspicions -and, with her heart full of pity, she knelt down by Noémi, lifted up -her head, tried to console her, saying maternally, "My child. . . . -Come, come! . . ." - -She took her in her strong arms and raised her up. She felt this young -body, shaken by sobs, abandoning itself, defenceless, and she thought, -"Is it possible that I am the one who causes this suffering?" - -Another voice said to her, "Would you not buy your love at the cost of -any amount of suffering?" - -"My own suffering, yes." - -"Your own and other people's. Why should the others be privileged?" - -She looked at Noémi as she held her, half-fainting. . . . So light! . . . -A bird! . . . It seemed to her that she was her daughter and, without -quite meaning to do so, she pressed her in her arms. Noémi opened her -eyes and Annette thought, "If she were in my place would she spare me?" - -But Noémi turned towards her a broken look. Annette laid her in her -_chaise longue_, and, standing beside her, placed her hand on her head. -(Noémi shivered at the hateful contact, but she did not show it.) She -asked her, as if she were addressing a weeping child, "So you love him -very much?" - -"I love nothing but him." - -"I, too, love him." - -Noémi gave a jealous start. "Oh," she said harshly, "but I am young. -You, you" (she hesitated), "you have had your life, you can get on -without him." - -Annette repeated to herself, bitterly, the words she had not uttered: -"It is because I shall soon be old that I cling to this last hour of -youth, this supreme light, and will not give it up. . . . Ah! If I had -the treasure of youth before me as you have!" - -But she added, sadly, "I should make a mess of it a second time, I -suppose." - -Noémi had seen Annette's face darken and she was afraid she had -imperilled the frail advantages she had just gained. She said hastily, -"I know quite well that he loves you, that you are beautiful"--("Liar!" -thought Annette)--"that you are superior to me in many things that he -likes. I cannot even hate you because, in spite of everything, I love -you"--("Liar! Liar!" repeated Annette)--"The match is not equal. It -isn't fair! No . . . I am only a poor, weeping woman. I don't amount to -anything. I know it. . . . But I love him, I love him, I can't live -without him. What do you think will become of me if you take him away? -Why did he love me once if it was only to abandon me? I can't endure -it. He is my whole life. Everything else is nothing to me." - -There was nothing false in her tone now, and Annette pitied her again. -She was insensible to the rights Noémi invoked over her husband; she -did not believe in the rights of one being over another, in these -contracts of mutual proprietorship that people sign for life. But she -was distressed by these tricks of cruel nature who, when she separates -two hearts that have loved each other, never removes love from both -hearts at once--no, but rather takes pains that one of the two shall -cease to love before the other, so that the most loving is always -sacrificed. And it was hateful to her to further the schemes of the -great torturer. "Life belongs to the strongest. Yes, love does not -hesitate. To attain its end it tramples everything else under foot. Woe -to the weak! . . . But why is it that I can't say this? I should like -to, but the words stick in my throat, I cannot. It revolts me. Is it -because I do not love enough? I am old, as she says. I belong in the -ranks of the weak. . . . No! No! No! It's a trick! . . . By what right -does she come and step between happiness and me? I will not give up to -her my bit of happiness! . . . Her tears, what are her tears to -me? . . . I will trample on her!" - -But as she looked angrily at Noémi lying there, Noémi, who was -watching her through her tears, took the hand, the arm that hung down by -the back of the chair, pressed it against her cheek and begged, "Let me -keep him!" - -Annette tried to free herself. Noémi held her fast. Rising in her -chair, she slid her two hands up Annette's arm, forcing her to bend over -and look at her. "Let me keep him!" - -Annette snatched herself away from the fingers that gripped her. She -rebelled. "No! No! I will not. He needs me." - -"He needs nothing but himself," said Noémi, bitterly. "He loves nothing -but himself. He finds his pleasure in you as he once found it in me. He -will leave you as he left me. He is not attached to anything." - -She judged him hardly and profoundly. Annette was struck by her -intelligence. With what acuteness, born of bitterness and suffering, had -he been read to the depths by this little creature who seemed so -frivolous and heedless! Some of her terrible observations corresponded -only too well with the apprehensions that her own experiences had -awakened in Annette. "And yet you love him?" she said. - -"I love him. He does not need me. It is I who need him. . . . Ah! Do you -suppose I don't suffer in needing a man who has no need of me, a man who -despises me, whom I despise? . . . I do despise him! I despise him! But -I can't live without him. . . . Why did I ever know him? It was I who -wanted him. I wanted him, I caught him. . . . And I am the one who is -caught. If only, if only I had never known him! Ah, but I can't wish -that! . . . I haven't the strength. I am too much in love. He holds me -completely. I hate him. I hate love. Why, why does one love?" - -She stopped, exhausted, with her hunted eyes wandering, seeking to the -right, to the left, a way of escape. They bowed their heads, these two -women, enslaved under the yoke of the savage force. - -Noémi took up her refrain in a dull, heavy tone, "Let me keep him." - -Annette felt a will as tenacious and adhesive as a devilfish clinging to -her limbs with its arms covered with suckers. She snatched herself away -from it again and cried, "I will not." - -There was a flash of anger in Noémi's eyes and her fingers clenched. -Then in a soft, plaintive voice, she said, "Love him! Let him love you! -But don't take him away from me. Let us both keep him, you and I." - -Annette made a gesture of repulsion. - -Noémi's fury flashed up again. "Do you think it doesn't disgust me? You -disgust me. I detest you. But I don't want to lose him." - -Annette moved away from Noémi and said, "I do not detest you. You are -suffering and I am suffering. But it is base to divide in love. I am -willing to be the victim. I am willing to be the executioner. I am not -willing to be base. To save what I love I am not willing to surrender -half of it. I give everything. I want everything. Or I want nothing." - -Noémi, clenching her teeth, cried from the depths of her heart. -"Nothing!" (For even while she was offering to yield a share, she -counted on regaining everything.) - -Then, with a bound, she rose from her chair, ran to Annette as she stood -there, and, falling on her knees, clasped her legs. "Forgive me! I don't -know, I don't know what I am asking. I don't know what I want. But I am -unhappy. I cannot endure it. . . . What am I to do? Tell me! Help me!" - -"Help you! I!" said Annette. - -"You. To whom can I go for help? I am alone. Alone with that man who is -not interested in you, even when he loves you, in whom you cannot put -any trust. . . . And, before he came, a mother who was interested in -nothing but herself, in her pleasures. . . . No one to advise me. ... I -haven't a single friend. . . . When I saw you I thought you would be -one. And you have been my worst enemy. . . . Why have you done me this -injury?" - -Annette was overwhelmed. "My poor child, it wasn't my fault. I didn't -wish it. . . ." - -Noémi seized upon this compassionate word, "Your child, you said. . . . -Yes, be a mother, an older sister to me! Don't hurt me! Advise me. Tell -me what I should do. I don't want to lose him. . . . Tell me, tell -me. . . . I will do anything you say. . . ." - -She was speaking only half falsely. She was so accustomed to shamming -what she felt that she felt what she shammed. And her love, her grief, -her need of Annette, her hope of touching her, were certainly real. Even -this confidence she showed in her--the last card she had to play. She -played it with a passion of despair. And even as she unbosomed herself, -she did not lose sight of the disquietude that Annette's face could not -conceal. Annette was weakening. Noémi's self-abandonment disarmed her. -She no longer had the strength to reply. She was not deceived, however. -The sugary tone of some of her adversary's inflections threw light on -the latter's duplicity. She let her talk. She read her depths. She was -thinking, "What shall I do? Sacrifice myself? What a sell! I will not. I -don't like this woman. She lies, she hates me. But she is suffering." -And she stroked the head of the kneeling enemy, who continued to groan -and watch her, following her vacillating will as if it were her prey, -with a shiver of fear, of acute breathless half-sanguinary joy, and who, -at the right moments, pressing to her lips those hands that she would -gladly have bitten, repeated, tirelessly, "Let me keep him!" - -Annette, with lowered brows, wanted to drive her away. She saw in those -eyes trickery and grief, falsehood and love, a desperate hope. She -smiled with weariness, pity and disgust for herself, for them both--for -everything; and, turning aside her head, she said in a moment of -weakness, "Keep him!" - -No sooner had she said it than she wished to take it back. But -Noémi bounded to her feet and embraced Annette with frantic -protestations. . . . (She had never hated her so much! At last she -had her! . . . Had her?) Annette was already saying, "No, no! . . ." - -Noémi pretended not to hear. She called her darling, her best friend. -She vowed eternal gratitude, eternal love. She laughed and cried. But -she did not waste her time in vain effusions. She wanted to know what -Annette would do to get rid of Philippe. - -Annette rebelled. "I said nothing." - -"You did say it. You did say it. You promised me. . . ." - -"A word that escaped me. . . . You dragged it from me by surprise." - -"No, you can't take it back. You said 'Keep him.' You said it, Annette. -Tell me that you said it! You can't deny it. . . ." - -"Leave me, leave me," said Annette, exhausted. "Don't torment me. I -can't. I can't." - -She sat down, crushed, while Noémi, standing beside her, continued to -harass her. Their rôles had changed. Annette refused to give him up; -her love had taken root in her. Noémi did not care about this. Annette -could keep her love if she did not keep Philippe. She wanted Annette to -break with him at once, without waiting. And she could suggest ways of -breaking with him; her head was full of them. She urged her, cajoled -her, begged her, tried to force her, embraced her, deafened her with her -flow of words; she appealed to her generous heart, besought, adjured, -demanded, dictated the replies. . . . - -Annette, rigid and frozen, would not say another word. She did not even -try to stop this torrent. Her lips were tightly pressed together, her -eyes dull. . . . At last Noémi became silent in the face of this -immobility. She took her hands--they were cold and damp. "Answer, -answer!" she said. - -Without looking at her, Annette murmured, "Leave me." (Her voice was so -low that Noémi read it on her lips rather than heard it.) - -"You want me to go away?" she replied. - -Annette nodded. - -"I am going, but you have promised?" - -Annette repeated wearily, "Leave me, leave me. . . . I need to be -alone. . . ." - -Noémi hastily rearranged her hair before the mirror. Then, turning -towards the door, she said, "Good-bye, you have promised. . . ." - -Annette made a final gesture of protest, "No, I have promised nothing." - -Noémi felt herself again flooded with anger. After all this effort! But -her instinct told her that she must not move too quickly or stretch the -cord too tight. . . . All the same, the blow had its effect. She left. - -She had seen the weakness of the enemy. She would trample on her. - - - - -XLV - - -Annette remained for some time motionless in the spot where Noémi had -left her. She was exhausted after this long scene. She would have -resisted better if the attack had not surprised her at a moment when she -was already shaken by the double wear and tear of passion and incessant -work, the uninterrupted fever aroused in her stormy soul by her -participation in Philippe's struggles, the repressed remorse, the -anguish that was concealed beneath her exhaustion of mind and body. This -weakness gave Noémi her strength. She found the field prepared and an -ally in her adversary. - -Noémi herself played little part in Annette's anxieties. She cared -little for her as a woman. As a rival she did not care about her at all. -She considered her false, perfidious, heartless, and with jealous -injustice she now denied what she had at first enjoyed, her charm. -Everything about her seemed factitious except her grief. Besides, it -mattered very little whether it was Noémi or someone else. . . . "She -is a living creature who suffers, and I, I cause this suffering. . . ." -And a strange pity preyed upon Annette's heart. - -This tendency had developed, during the last few years, from the sight -of so much misery, from her connection with those two deaths, Odette's -and Ruth's. She had been mysteriously shaken by them. A weakness. She -called it unhealthy and perhaps it was so. One could not live if one had -to pause over the sufferings of the world. All happiness is nourished on -the unhappiness of someone else. Life devours life, as larvæ devour the -living prey in which they are laid. And everyone drinks the blood of -all. . . . Annette had once drunk it without thinking of it, and this -blood brought warmth and joy to her body. While she was young she had -never thought of the victims. From the moment when she had said to -herself, as she thought of them, "I must be hard," she had begun to -weaken. She felt this; she could only be hard intermittently now. She -was growing old. Ten years earlier she would not have had a moment's -hesitation because of the harm she was doing Noémi. "My happiness is my -right. Woe to anyone who touches it! . . ." She would have had no need -to seek for pretexts. Now, in order to snatch from life her share of -happiness, she had to find other reasons than her happiness. She was no -longer sufficient unto herself. She had found the strength to brush -aside, without scruple, the other less fortunate competitors in the hunt -for bread. This bread was her son's; she was upheld by the animal -instinct that makes a creature bristle to defend its young and feed them -on the flesh of its fellow-animals. But the other animal instinct, the -love of self--taking and keeping for oneself--was dying down and only -asserted itself now by fits and starts. Maternity, by usurping the place -of this other instinct, had partially destroyed it. - -In the present crisis her son was no help to her. Far from it! He was -one anxiety and remorse the more. Annette could not lie to herself, her -passion took no account of her son. She felt guilty towards him, and she -had taken pains to hide everything from him. She knew the child. In the -past she had observed the jealousy that led him to drive his claws into -those whom she loved. She did not blame him for this. She was glad that -he wanted to be the only one to love her. . . . But to-day she was -defending her treasure--against whom? Against her treasure! Passion -against passion. She did not wish to sacrifice either of the two. And as -both of them were jealous, obstinate, domineering, she had to hide from -each the secret of the other. Had she succeeded? Marc detested the -"other fellow." He knew nothing--of that she was sure--but although he -did not know, had not his instinct told him? She was ashamed to conceal -herself and she was even more ashamed that he might suspect. . . . No, -he suspected nothing; it was for other reasons that he hated -Philippe. . . . - -As for Philippe himself, he did not do Marc the honor of thinking about -him at all. In marrying Annette he would have been quite willing to take -two or three brats into the bargain. It made no difference to him either -in his feelings or financially; there was no need to be grateful to him -for it. He did not dislike Marc; he thought him fairly bright, rather -lazy, not very keen; he might have subjected him to a sharp discipline, -but he felt no need to concern himself with the child, and he made this -plain. He had a way of talking of him, a rough humor that wounded -Annette to the quick. Accustomed to the coarse things of life, he had no -idea of the consideration that a proud, sensitive nature demands, of the -things that offend its sense of decency. In the bluntest, rudest terms -he would give the boy, in his mother's presence, harsh warnings and -medical advice that made both the child and the mother blush. The mother -more than the child. Philippe's theory was that nothing must be -concealed from the boy. This was also Annette's theory. And Marc's as -well. But there are ways of putting things! Annette suffered in her very -flesh. Marc, who was humiliated, stored up the bitterest resentment. -Between him and Philippe there never could be anything but -misunderstanding. Their two temperaments were too different. Annette -could foresee the clashes, the endless discords. A terrible thought for -her, the passionate lover and mother! - -There was no one to whom she could turn for help in making up her mind. -She had to decide alone, egoistically. Well, didn't she have the right -to think of herself too? A right is nothing if one does not maintain it. -Was she maintaining hers? . . . Yes, at moments, like a lioness, when -she saw youth, happiness, life about to be swallowed up. . . . -Happiness? . . . There was no question of happiness in a union with a -man like Philippe! Something less or something more, incomparably more -for a woman like Annette: a full, bold, intelligent life, not a life of -repose slumbering in its security, but great winds, storms, action, -struggles--with the world--with him--a life of trouble and fatigue--but -together--life--a life worthy of being lived, with death at the end, -when one was worn out and happy to leave the hard, fertile days behind, -happy to have had them. . . . That was glorious!! But one must have the -strength. . . . She had it, enough to carry the burden, once it was well -adjusted, with her head up, to the end. But in order to adjust it she -had to be helped and even forced a little. Philippe must place the -burden on her head, impose it on her. He must say, "Carry it! For me! -You are necessary to me. . . ." With these words she could surmount all -her remorse. . . . Was she necessary to Philippe? He had said so during -the first days when he had wanted to win her. He no longer said it, and -Annette would have liked to hear it again and again, to be convinced. -She saw him full of himself, used to working alone, fighting alone, -extricating himself alone, putting all his pride into it; he would have -felt humiliated if he had had to seek help. So she said to herself, -"What am I good for?" It is the bounty of love not only to give us faith -in someone else but to give us back faith in ourself. May it be -charitable to us! - -This was a feeling that Philippe seldom entertained. Like most of his -kind, this great doctor of the body paid little attention to maladies of -the soul. He never gave a thought to the doubts that preyed upon this -woman whose body lay by his side. He should not have left her the time -to question herself. . . . Make an end of it, marry her! . . . Annette -would whisper to him softly, "Let's go away together, so that I can -never take myself back!" - -But Philippe was no longer in a hurry. He was passionate, yes, but he -had many other passions that were of far more importance to him: his -ideas, his struggles, the controversy that was absorbing him at the -moment when Annette would have liked him to think of nothing but -herself. He had no intention of stirring up a conjugal scandal and -hampering himself with a noisy divorce-case before he had emerged from -the fire of the present battle. He had made up his mind to keep his -promises. But later! Annette must have patience. It was easy enough for -him to be patient. He enjoyed her. He was quite willing to leave things -as they were. He flattered himself that he could impose the same -forbearance upon Noémi. He flattered himself too much! He did not wish -to see how intolerable this waiting was to the two women. . . . - -"Naturally," thought Annette, "a man--a man worthy for us to love--will -never love us as much as his ideas, his science, his art, his politics. -A naïve egoism that thinks it is disinterested because it incarnates -itself in ideas. The egoism of the brain, more murderous than that of -the heart. How many hearts have been broken by it!" - -She was not surprised at this, for she knew life; but it hurt her. If it -had only been a question of suffering she would have accepted it, -however, perhaps even with that secret enjoyment of self-sacrifice which -is familiar to women and which they willingly consider the price of -love. But not to the point of sacrificing her self-respect and her son's -honor in a humiliating situation. It hurt her that Philippe did not feel -this. Of course he was not sensitive. She knew what he thought of women -and love. He could not help thinking as he did; he had been shaped by -his education and his rough experiences, and it was for this that she -loved him. But she had flattered herself with the hope that she would -change him. Instead, she perceived that day by day she was losing her -power over him. And worst of all, over herself. Annette felt herself -invaded by the demon of sensuality; day by day she became less the -mistress of her will, more enslaved. - -The duel of passion only preserves its nobility as long as there is -equality between the combatants. When one is conquered the other abuses -his victory and the vanquished becomes debased. Annette was at that -poignant moment which precedes and determines defeat. She knew it: her -strength would not sustain her any longer. Philippe knew this also, and -his attitude showed it. It made no difference that he cared just as -much--perhaps more, for Annette; he showed less consideration for her -and he made brutal use of what belonged to him. He treated her like a -conquered province. With all his days absorbed in his regular and -passionate life of toil and his nights by Noémi (for he wished to keep -up appearances), he saw Annette only during brief and burning -encounters. No intimacy of the heart. He maintained, cynically, that she -had the best of it all. - -She wanted to tear herself away from this degradation in which her -senses were accomplices, but every day they became more imperious. Once, -when she wished to flee from their tyranny, they refused to obey with a -violence that dismayed her. A woman of such fervent energy who, after -having severely disciplined and repressed her passions for ten years, -opens the door of their cage at the most fiery moment of the stormy -summer, runs the risk of being destroyed. - -Annette could only retrieve herself by forcing Philippe to respect the -wife she wished to be--the companion "_rei humanœ atque divinœ_"--the -equal. She asked Philippe, she besought him in anguish, to give her up -till the time came when they could love and marry openly. Philippe -refused: he was as unwilling to be hampered in his passions as in his -public life. He was unwilling either to do without Annette or to marry -her at a time that did not suit him. He pretended to consider Annette's -attempt to leave him as a rather degrading manœuvre to attach him to -her. And this although he knew very well what a whole-hearted gift she -had made of herself! She was insulted by the outrageous suspicion--and -she gave herself again with a despairing passion and disgust. - -As for himself, he would see nothing of all this. He came back, -demanding his own selfish rights as a lover, never realizing that, -although she consented to them, every one of these carnal victories left -a wound in his partner. - -Annette was degraded in her own eyes. She ceased to give herself; she -prostituted herself to love. Unless she flung herself off the slope down -which her mad body was sliding, she was lost. . . . - -One afternoon she fled. She went to Sylvie's and asked her to let her -child stay with her for a few days, pleading as an excuse that she had -to go away. Sylvie asked for no explanation; one glance was enough. This -woman, whose curiosity was so often indiscreet, and who was unable in so -many ways to understand her sister's ideas, had an instinct for love and -its tragic tricks. In the days of the old intimacy with Annette, she had -never confided to her the secrets of her own love affairs, and she did -not expect Annette to open herself to her. She knew that every woman has -a right to her hours of silence, her great hours, and that at such times -no one can help her. One must save oneself alone or perish alone. She -offered her sister the shelter of a little house she owned in the -suburbs, near Jouy-en-Josas. Annette was touched, and she kissed her and -accepted. In this little rustic house, on the edge of the woods, she -shut herself up for a fortnight. She had not even told Marc where she -was going. Her retreat was known only to Sylvie. - -Scarcely had she left Paris and its enchanted circle than she perceived -the excesses of the past few weeks and passed judgment on them. She was -terrified by them. She, this mad creature, this miserable slave drunk -with her own servitude! Passion, the destroyer of the soul! . . . Its -clasp loosened. She breathed again, this evening, she saw and felt once -more the fields, the woods, the calm of the earth. For two months an -opaque red veil had concealed the living world from her. Even those -closest to her, her son, had come to seem far away. . . . But when she -reached the house in the fields, the veil was torn away in the rays of -the setting sun. She heard the bells, the birds, the voices of the -peasants; she wept with relief. . . . In the middle of the night, -however--she had fallen asleep exhausted--she awoke suddenly with a pang -of anguish. She felt about her throat the coils of the serpent. - -She spent her days in a succession of humiliating tortures, bland -impulses, moments of sudden, keen, absolute clairvoyance that pierced -the great deception. She had a perpetual feeling of insecurity. Even -though she was prepared and armed, a mere nothing would have caused her -to give way. She prolonged her absence. - -She was not without danger of imperilling her situation. In this sudden -eclipse, she was losing her lessons. The little clientele that she had -gathered with so much trouble was passing into other hands. Sylvie -forwarded letters and information to her sister, but she added nothing -but good news about the child's health. She avoided giving her any -advice. Annette alone was to judge. - -Annette knew full well that she ought to return, but she still -lingered. . . . It was in vain that she stayed on; she could not -prevent her thoughts from returning to Philippe. What was he -doing? Wasn't he hunting for her? . . . From him nothing had -come. She dreaded any news, and she sought for it. She dismissed -him from her mind, she thought she had freed herself. But he had -not given her up and suddenly he rose before her. - -One evening she was wandering, idle, full of haunting thoughts, under -the arbor that skirted the low wall of the garden, when, between the -branches, she saw an automobile coming towards her in the distance down -the white road. And she thought, "It's he!" . . . She stepped back out -of sight. The car drove past along the wall to the end of the little -yard. Annette, with her heart tightening, listened to its roaring, heard -it slow down. Thirty paces farther on the road forked and the car -stopped. Annette, behind the screen of leaves, ventured to glance, out -and saw the back of the man who was hesitating, turning round, exploring -the horizon. She recognized him. Terror seized her. She ran and flung -herself behind a hedge of box and sank down upon the ground, her nails -scratching the earth; she lowered her head and the blood flooded her -cheeks as she thought, "He is going to take me again!" She wanted to say -"No" and her blood cried "Yes!" She felt the dry turf crumbling under -her fingers, and, with her face buried in the boxwood, she tried to stop -the roaring of the blood in her ears so that she could listen to the -steps on the other side of the wall. She heard the car starting off -again. She ran to the corner of the garden on the road and cried, -"Philippe!" - -The car disappeared at the turn. - -The next day Annette went back to Paris. Did she know what she wanted or -what she was going to do? Sylvie looked at her pityingly and said to -herself, "It's no better." But she did not question her. - -Annette, full of gratitude, remained seated without speaking, her body -broken with fatigue, in a corner of her sister's room, seeking peace in -this warm presence. Sylvie came and went, leaving her to recover herself -in the silence. At last Annette got up to go home. As she was about to -leave, Sylvie, placing her hands on either side of her forehead, looked -at her a long time, shook her head and said, "If you can't do otherwise, -submit; don't struggle any longer. It will pass. Everything passes, the -good, the bad and we ourselves. . . . How little it all matters!" - -But to Annette it mattered a great deal. The question was not merely -between Philippe and herself. It was between her and herself. To return -to Philippe and confess herself conquered by him would have given her a -bitter pleasure. But what terrified her was a deeper, more intimately -personal defeat that would have no witness but herself. She carried her -mortal adversary within her. Never once, for many years, had she failed -to realize this, though from pride and prudence perhaps she had pleased -herself by not thinking of it. This gulf of desire and sensual delight -that a former life (her father's?) had dug within her. . . . Everything -that gave her strength and pride of life, her will, her healthy soul, -the free, pure breath that bathed her lungs, everything was being sucked -down into it. _Mors antmœ_. . . . And Annette, whose reason did not -seem to believe in the soul, did not wish her soul to die. - -Carried back to Paris, where Philippe was, like a captive on some -Assyrian bas-relief, with a rope about her neck, she did not look for -Philippe. She avoided him. - -Philippe, as much possessed by Annette as Annette was by him, had come -and knocked at her door in her absence. He was indignant over this -sudden departure. He would not admit that she could escape him. He tried -to find her address. He had Sylvie's and he went to see her. The first -glance was a declaration of war. Sylvie had understood. Armed with a -bitter defiance, she sized Philippe up with her own eyes and not with -those of Annette--a man who would be dangerous as an enemy and more -dangerous as a lover, the kind of man who destroys what he loves. She -knew that sort and she would never have anything to do with them. To -Philippe's peremptory questions regarding Annette's whereabouts, she -replied coldly that she knew nothing about them, taking pains that he -should see that she knew everything. Philippe made an effort to conceal -his annoyance. He tried to wheedle her. Sylvie remained stolid. He went -away in a rage. - -He wasted no time in beating the bushes for her, and it never entered -his head to cover himself with dust travelling in a car to -Jouy-en-Josas. He did not even look for Annette. He had no intention of -sacrificing his days in a vain pursuit. He was sure she would come back. -But that she should fail him, that she should allow herself to upset him -at such a moment as this, was more than he could forgive; and his -resentment, no less than a furious need of diversion, flung him back -upon his wife. It was a provisional reconciliation and humiliating -enough to this woman who was only a substitute. For it was only for want -of something better; he was waiting for the other one. - -But Noémi was not going to be proud when her advantage opposed it. She -did not waste her time. The ordeal had revealed to her former -mistakes. She had realized that to hold a man it is not enough to make -him love you. You must flatter his pride and his whims. Philippe was -astonished at the interest she showed in his present campaign, -astonished that she had even taken the trouble to find out about it. He -suspected her motives, but whether Noémi's interest was real or not, it -was very agreeable to him. It pleased him to discover Noémi's -intelligence. She no longer concealed it. It was through this that -Annette had ousted her. She made use of these weapons and improved on -them. Unlike Annette, she did not trouble to go to the bottom of the -dispute. She left this to her husband and master. She limited her rôle -to suggesting the most skilful tactics for assuring him the victory. -Philippe admired her ingenuity. - -At this moment the controversy was at the most violent stage. Noémi, -overcoming the repugnance and boredom that she felt at these quarrels -between men, perceived that she must fling herself resolutely into the -arena. She set to work upholding, with the wittiest effrontery, in -drawing-rooms, the daring arguments her husband had launched. Her grace, -her humor, her laughing enthusiasm, her impishness, her passionate -earnestness, caused some slight scandal and a great deal of amusement. -She won over to her side a number of young women who were delighted to -show how free they were from social prejudices. The skilful Noémi took -pains not to break with appearances. Even while she gave them the most -disrespectful raps, she contrived to procure indulgence for herself in -the camp of morality and respectable people. She gravely maintained that -the right of the poor to have no children had its counterpart in the -duty of the rich to supply the State and Society with them. It required -self-possession to say this and not lose her assurance, for during seven -years of married life she had never found the time to fulfil this duty -herself. But she was heroic. She discovered this now. - - - - -XLVI - - -Philippe was not slow in discovering that Annette had come back. He -tried to find her in her apartment at the hours when he knew she was -alone. But Annette distrusted herself. He found the door shut. In spite -of his resentment and his distractions, his passion had not weakened. -Annette's resistance exasperated him. He was not the man to let himself -be dismissed. - -Annette caught sight of him a few steps away in the street. She turned -pale, but she did not try to escape from him. They approached each -other. He said, with decision, "You are going home. I am going with -you." - -"No," she replied. - -Together they entered a small square that backed upon a church. A dusty -tree barely concealed them from the stream of passers-by in the street. -They had to restrain themselves. - -"You are afraid of me." - -"No," she said, "of myself." - -Philippe was burning with passion and resentment. But when his hard -glance encountered Annette's, which did not avoid him, he perceived the -suffering that she was firmly controlling. His anger melted, and in a -softened voice he asked, "Why did you run away?" - -"Because you are killing me." - -"Don't you know what it is to love?" - -"I do know, and that is why I ran away. I am afraid of hating you." - -"Well, hate me, if you like. Hating is a way of loving." - -"Not for me," she said. "I can't endure it." - -"You are not so weak that you can't endure both the good and evil of a -complete love." - -"I am not so weak, Philippe. I want a complete love. Body and soul. I -don't want merely half." - -"The soul is all nonsense," he said. - -"Then to what purpose have you devoted all your energy? For what have -you sacrificed yourself, ever since you were born, if not to your Idea?" - -He shrugged his shoulders. "Delusion!" he said. - -"You live by it. I have mine too. Don't kill it." - -"What do you want?" - -"I want us to avoid seeing each other till the day when we decide -whether we are to unite our lives or not." - -"Why?" - -"Because I don't want, I don't want to hide any longer. I don't want any -more sharing. I don't want it, I don't want it." - -But she did not utter her deepest reason. ("If I gave in once more, I -should soon cease to have the will to desire anything else. I should no -longer belong to myself. I should be a toy that is broken after it has -been spoiled.") - -But he was incapable of understanding this instinctive revolt against -one's enslavement to one's deadly desires. He could see in it nothing -but defiance and a feminine trick to get the best of him. If he did not -put this into words, he did not by any means conceal his feeling. When -Annette perceived this, she made an impetuous movement to leave him. -Philippe, trembling with impatience and the effort he was making not to -betray it to the eyes of passers-by, seized Annette's arm, pressed it -and said in a furious voice which he tried to muffle, "As for me, I will -not, will not give you up. I will see you. Be still! Don't answer. . . . -We can't talk here. . . . I shall come and see you this evening." - -"No, no!" she said. - -"I shall come," he said. "I cannot live without you. Nor can you live -without me." - -"I can," she said, rebelliously. - -"You lie!" - -They struggled, without moving, in low, violent voices, lashing each -other's souls. They measured each other with their eyes. Philippe's gave -way. "Annette!" he besought her. - -But her cheeks still burned with the brutal lie he had given her, the -shame of thinking that she really had lied. She stiffened, freed herself -from the hand that held her, and went away. - -In the evening Philippe came. She had spent the whole day in terror of -this moment, in terror lest she might not have the strength to keep her -door shut. For she did not want to face again this pitiless passion. She -was convinced of the impossibility of living with this torch fastened to -her breast. She must tear it away while the strength still remained to -her. Did enough still remain? She loved him, she loved the flame that -was consuming her. The next day she would love the shame and the outrage -to which she had submitted. She blushed to admit it to herself, but even -in her revolt against him that morning there had been an element of -sensual delight. - -She recognized his steps as they came up the stairs. She heard him ring -and did not move from her chair. He rang again and knocked. Annette, -with her arms hanging and her shoulders flung back, kept repeating to -herself, "No! No!" - -Even had she wished to rise and open the door her breath would have -failed her. - -She heard nothing more. Had he gone away? She was on her feet before she -had even thought of it. She slipped with tottering, noiseless steps to -the door. A board in the floor creaked. Annette stopped. Some seconds -passed. . . . Nothing stirred. But she was aware of Philippe's presence -watching behind the door. And Philippe knew that Annette was listening -on the other side. There was a heavy silence. They were spying on each -other. . . . Philippe's voice, close to the door, said, "Annette, you -are there. Open!" - -Annette, leaning against the wall, felt her heart give way. She did not -answer. - -"I know you are there. Don't try to hide! Annette, open! I must speak to -you." - -He lowered his voice so as not to be heard on the stairway, but a flood -of mingled passions was rising in him. He was on the point of shaking -the door. - -"I must see you. . . . Whether you wish it or not, I mean to come -in. . . ." - -Silence. - -"Annette, I hurt you this morning. Forgive me! . . . I want you. What do -you want me to do? Tell me. I will do it. . . ." - -Silence. Silence. - -Philippe clenched his fists. He could have strangled her. With his mouth -against the door, he growled, "You are mine. You haven't the right to -take yourself back. - -"Think hard!" he said. "If you don't open, it is finished for ever. - -"Annette, my Annette!" he said. - -"Coward!" he said furiously. "You are afraid to see me. You are only -strong behind a closed door." - -"Why do you torture me?" said a voice behind the door. - -Philippe was silent. - -"My friend," the tired voice went on, "you are killing me." - -Philippe was touched, but his wounded pride was unwilling to show it. -"What do you want?" he said. - -"Mercy!" she answered. - -The tone of her voice touched him, but he did not understand. "What do -you need?" - -"Leave me!" she said. - -His anger sprang up again. "You are driving me away?" - -"I am begging you for peace. Peace! . . . Leave me alone for a few -weeks." - -"You don't love me any longer?" - -"I am defending my love." - -"Against whom? Against what?" - -"Against you." - -"Madness! . . . You will open to me." - -"No!" - -"I demand it. I want you." - -"I am not your prey." - -Quivering, she held herself straight and proud. Her eyes defied him -through the door. Though he could not see them, these eyes pierced him. -"Good-bye!" he cried to her. - -She heard him go away, and her blood froze. He would never forgive. - - - - -XLVII - - -He did not forgive. Philippe did not return. - -Annette kept repeating to herself, "It had to be, it had to be. . . ." - -But she could not accept it. She longed to see Philippe once more, to -make him understand, gently--why had he been so furious?--that she was -not leaving him, that she was jealously defending her love, their love, -their common pride which he was destroying with unconscious brutality. -She wanted them both to have a chance to collect themselves, to recover -themselves amid the torrent of passion that was rolling them along with -its mud and foam, so that they might consider things and make up their -minds with perfect liberty. If he finally chose her, let it be in a -fashion compatible with his wife's and his own self-respect. - -But Philippe would never forgive a woman he loved who had raised a -barrier against his will. If he had belonged to another social class he -would have violated her. Confined as he was in the cage of his own, -obliged to handle with tact this world he wished to master, his wounded -passion turned into an exasperated denial of itself. Losing the woman, -he destroyed the feeling he had for her. This, as he knew, would strike -her to the heart. For his instinct told him that, in spite of -everything, Annette loved him. - -After three months of burning solitude, of a bitter and tormented -self-communion, of hope, renunciation, pride, servility of soul, inner -reproaches, after three months of hopeless, sterile waiting, Annette -learned one day from the delighted Solange of the happiness that had -fulfilled the longings of the Villard household. Noémi was about to -have a child. - - - - -XLVIII - - -Annette would have liked to take refuge with her child and hide her -unhappy head under the wing of the love which, they say, never fails -one--that of the son for the mother. Alas, it fails like all the others. -Annette could not look to Marc for a sign of tenderness or even -interest. Never had the young boy seemed colder, more indifferent, more -unfeeling. He saw nothing of the torments that ravaged his mother. To be -sure, she did her best to conceal them from him. But she concealed them -so badly! He might have seen them in her eyes, hollow as they were with -sleeplessness, in her pale face, in her thin hands, in her whole body, -which was wasted by cruel passion. He saw nothing. He did not even look. -He was concerned with nothing but himself, and what took place in him he -kept to himself. He saw her only at meal-times, when he never said a -word; the efforts Annette made to talk only made him more obstinate in -his silence. She could scarcely induce him to say good-morning and -good-night at the beginning and the end of the day, for he had made up -his mind that all such things were mere affectation, and he only agreed -to them--and that not every day--for the sake of peace. He would -hastily offer his mother's lips a bored forehead, and when he did not go -out to school or on some affair of his own--it was not easy to get him -to tell about the latter--he shut himself up in his workroom, a -store-room, about the size of a large wardrobe, wedged in between the -dining-room and his bedroom; and it was a mistake to disturb him there. -At the table or in the sitting-room, he seemed like a stranger. Annette -said to herself bitterly, "If I died he would not even weep." - -And she thought of the dream she had once conceived of the dear little -companion, blood of her blood, pressed close against her, divining, -sharing, without words, all the secrets of her heart. How lacking in -affection he was! Why was he so hard? One would have said at moments -that he was angry with her. Why? Because she loved him too much? - -"Yes, that is my weakness, loving too much. People do not need it. It -bores them. . . . My son does not love me! He is only too anxious to -leave me. My son is so little my son! He feels nothing of what I feel. -He feels nothing!" - - -During these very days Marc's young heart was aflame with love and -poetry. He had fallen madly in love with Noémi. It was one of those -childish loves that are so absurd and all-consuming. He hardly knew what -he wanted of this woman: was it to see her, feel her, touch her, taste -her? Of course, he never dreamed of what possession meant: he was the -possessed one. Marc almost fainted when he touched the little hand that -Noémi held out to him, touched it with his lips and the tip of his -nose, the greedy puppy's nose that inhaled, in the frail flower of the -wrist, the intoxicating mystery of the feminine body. For him she was a -living fruit and flower. He was dying with desire to implant his teeth -in it--very gently--dying of terror lest he might yield. Once--oh, -shame!--he did yield. . . . What was going to happen? Red and trembling, -he expected the worst: public humiliation, indignant words, an -ignominious dismissal. But she burst out laughing, called him "puppy," -boxed his ear, rubbed his nose once, twice, three times, over the spot -he had bitten, saying, "Beg my pardon, little wretch!" - -From that moment she had amused herself playing with the young animal. -She meant no harm, she meant no good. She enjoyed exciting the young -lover. For her it was a matter of no moment. She never suspected how -serious it might be for the boy. But for him (for him who, in spite of -appearances, was the true child of Annette) it was tragic. - -Since the first time he had seen her, she had been for him the forbidden -Paradise, that marvellous mirage, woman, which appears before the -awakening glance of an innocent child. The fascinating image is shaped -as much from what exists as from what does not exist, as much from what -he sees as from what he does not see, what he does not know, what he -fears and desires, what he wants and what he does not want, the -terrifying attraction that thrills the adolescent body at the ecstatic, -brutal appeal of nature. As for Noémi's features, he probably did not -see one of them just as it was. But each of her features and each of her -movements, the folds of her dress, the curls of her hair, her voice, her -perfume, and the gleam of her eyes, everything stirred in his hungry -heart and body the wild, leaping waves of joy and hope, cries of -happiness, the need of tears. - -On the very day when the heart-broken Annette saw him so hard, so -hostile, so icy, when her awkward effort to learn the cause, to drag out -of him one word, one single word of affection, had brought down upon her -a cutting reply--on just that day the young boy had had his most moving -revelation of the enchanted dream. For eight days he had been living in -a state of intoxication. Noémi, whom he continued to see, without his -mother's knowing it, and who used him as a little spy who innocently -brought her word of all the movements in the enemy's camp--Noémi, whom -he had once surprised in her drawing-room, looking at herself, as she -talked, in a tiny mirror hidden in the folds of her handkerchief, had -amused herself painting his pale lips with her lipstick. He had had in -his mouth the taste of the beloved mouth. And ever since he had carried -it on the tongue that sucked it; he was impregnated with it. He saw this -pomegranate red, this ever-open mouth with the lip drawn up, too short -and too restless to meet the other lip, which was as full as a -cherry--saw it everywhere on that morning when, leaving his mother's -apartment, after rudely slamming the door, he decided to play hockey -from school and go for a walk. It blossomed in the cloud-orchard of the -beautiful July sky, in the little playful ripples of a fountain, in the -absent-minded smiles of passing women. It obsessed him. - -He was walking at random, with his blond head bare to the summer wind. -But, abstracted as he was and full of his own fancies, his lynx-eyes -recognized his Aunt Sylvie, in the distance, coming towards him on the -other sidewalk. He hastily turned off into a side street. The last thing -he wanted was to meet her. Not that he was afraid of being caught -playing truant: she would have been much more likely to laugh at that. -But when he had a secret, with her--it was not like this with his -mother!--he never felt safe. Of secrets of this kind, his instinct told -him, Aunt Sylvie was an expert reader. - -She had not seen him. He breathed freely again. He could enjoy his love -the whole morning. And as he strolled along--his love did not prevent -him from halting before the shop-windows to look at a necktie, a trifle -of some kind, an illustrated paper--his steps led him unawares straight -to his goal. He was like those pigeons in Paris that fly every morning -over the great piles of dusty houses seeking the green gardens and cool -old trees. The boy was seeking them too. He felt the need of their -rustling shade. - -He went down the Mont Sainte-Geneviève and, leaving the old, crowded -streets, found himself in the clear, calm spaces of the Jardin des -Plantes before he was aware that this was the spot to which he had -wished to come. - -There were few people here at this hour. A handful of scattered -strollers. Paris hummed like a hive in the distance. The blue vibration -of a beautiful summer morning. He picked out a bench that was hidden at -the foot of a group of trees, and he closed his eyes on his treasure. He -pressed his long, feverish, adolescent hands against his breast as if he -wished to shelter his heart from rash eyes. What was he hiding, what -thing so precious that he scarcely dared to think of it? A remark Noémi -had thoughtlessly uttered, a remark of which he had made a world. . . . -The last time he had seen her she had thrown him a chance smile. She had -been scarcely aware of the boy's presence, for her attention was -absorbed in the great things that had happened (the reconquest of -Philippe, the humiliation of Annette, the final victory! . . . "But one -never knows! Nothing is certain. Let us be satisfied with to-day! . . .") -She sighed from fatigue, relaxation, pleasure. Marc asked her why. -Amused by the boy's alarmed, ingenuous gaze, she said, with another -great sigh, to puzzle him, "It's a secret." - -"What secret?" - -A malicious thought darted through her mind and Noémi replied, "I can't -tell you. You must guess." - -Trembling with emotion, he said, "I don't know. Tell me." - -She lowered her lids over her languorous eyes. "No, no, no!" - -Blushing, stammering, he was afraid to understand. - -To keep up the game, she assumed a mysterious air and said, "Would you -like to have it?" - -In his emotion he was ready to cry, "No!" - -"Well, not to-day. . . . I'll tell you some other time." - -"When?" - -"Soon." - -"How soon?" - -"Soon. . . . Next week, when you come to dinner." - -The week had passed. This was the evening, Marc was thinking, when he -was to see her again. He was only living in the expectation of that -moment. He had lived it through twenty times in advance! He never dared -to go to the end of the scene. It was too agonizing. . . . But to linger -on the way was so sweet! On the garden-bench he gave way to his languor. -A clock struck noon. Behind a screen of trees the sand of a sunny path -crunched under the feet of a little girl who passed singing. Further on, -in an aviary, some exotic birds were chirping in a strange, agitating -language. From far away, on the Seine, came the long-drawn-out sound of -the siren of a tug. And noiselessly, without seeing him, two lovers -passed him slowly with their arms entwined as they walked, a tall, dark -girl and a pale young workman whose lips touched and who devoured each -other with their eyes. Holding his breath, the boy gazed after them till -their path turned, and as they disappeared he sobbed with happiness, the -happiness that had passed, the happiness that was coming. The happiness -that was in them, in everything that surrounded him, in this July -noon--in his own burning heart which embraced it all. - -He went home in the halo of this moment of ecstasy. It was infinitely -greater than the feminine image that had aroused it. The shadow of -Noémi melted into a golden bath, and he had to make an effort to summon -it up again. Marc tried to do so, but it escaped him. He was cheating -himself, pretending to find under this happiness, which was so intense -that it was painful, in everything that filled his heart to overflowing, -the boundless hopes, the heroic resolutions, the strength and good will -that bore him up like wings as he ran upstairs, four steps at a time. -But the moment he caught sight of his mother's severe face--he was -three-quarters of an hour late for lunch--the glory faded. He fell back -beneath the sullen cloud of silence. - -Annette did not try to talk to him. She had her own burden of anxieties, -and she could not share his. Her son, sitting opposite her at table, -seemed self-centred and far away. He ate ravenously. He was hungry and -eager to finish so that he could plunge back again into his daydreams. - -Annette thought, "I am nothing to him but the person who gives him his -food." - -She no longer had even the courage to protest. She felt abandoned. -Towards the end of the meal he became aware that he had not spoken, and -he felt vaguely remorseful. But he was afraid that if he said a word she -would begin to question him. He thrust his badly folded napkin into its -ring, rose hurriedly, and, taking care not to catch his mother's eye, -went out . . . or was going out, when, on a sudden impulse, he asked--he -was sure, for Noémi had told him, but he wanted confirmation--"It's -tonight we are dining at the Villards'?" - -Annette, who was still sitting there, motionless and dejected, said, -without looking up, "We are not dining out." - -Marc stopped, astonished, on the threshold. "What! They told me so!" - -"Who told you?" - -In his embarrassment the boy did not answer. His mother knew nothing -about his visits to Noémi. He hastened to turn aside the question with -another question, "But when are we going, then?" - -Annette shrugged her shoulders. There were never going to be any more -dinners at the Villards'. Noémi had said, for fun, "Next week," as she -might have said, "In the year forty." - -Marc let go of the door-knob and turned back in distress. Annette looked -at him, saw how disappointed he was, and said, "I don't know." - -"What! You don't know?" - -"The Villards have gone away," said Annette. - -"No!" Marc cried. - -She did not seem to hear him. Marc laid an impatient hand on his -mother's arm, which was stretched out over the table, and besought her, -"It isn't true?" - -Annette roused herself from her torpor, rose and began to clear the -table. - -"But where, where?" cried Marc, overwhelmed. - -"I don't know," said Annette. She gathered up the dishes and went out. - -Marc stood there, haggard, before his ruined dream. He did not -understand. This sudden departure, without a word of warning. . . . -Impossible! . . . He started to follow his mother, to drag some -explanation out of her. But, no! He stopped short. . . . No, this wasn't -true! He understood now. . . . Annette had discovered his love. She -wanted to separate them. She was lying, she was lying! Noémi had not -gone away. . . . And he hated his mother. - -He slipped out of the apartment, tumbled down the stairs, walked, ran, -with a beating heart, to the Villards'. He was going to make sure that -they had not left. And as a matter of fact, they were there. The footman -said that Monsieur had just gone out; Madame was tired and was not -receiving anyone. But Marc urged that she would let him have a moment's -conversation with her. The servant returned. Madame was sorry, but it -was impossible. The boy insisted, feverishly, that he must see her just -for a moment; he had something very important to tell her. . . . -Meanwhile, he said all sorts of incoherent things, stuttering and -choking in a broken voice, making awkward gestures; he blushed, he was -on the point of weeping. The curious, mocking eyes of the impassive -footman made him lose the thread of his ideas. He was pushed towards the -door. He resisted stupidly, crying out that he forbade anyone to touch -him. The servant told him to get out, said that if he did not hold his -tongue he would telephone to the concierge and have him taken down by -force. . . . The door closed behind him. Ashamed and furious, he -remained on the threshold, unable to make up his mind to leave. And as -he leaned mechanically against the door, he saw it was not shut tight -and was yielding. He pushed it open and stepped inside again. He meant -at all costs to reach Noémi. The vestibule was empty. He knew where the -room was and slipped into the corridor. He heard Noémi's voice from -within. She was saying to the footman, "Never in the world! He bores me -to death! You did quite right in pushing him out, the little fool!" - -He found himself back on the landing. He fled, he wept, he ground his -teeth, he was distracted. He sat down, choking, on one of the steps of -the staircase. He did not want people to see him crying in the street. - -Wiping away his tears, he assumed an air of calm that covered his mad -grief and, without knowing where he was going, he set out for home -again. He was desperate. To die, he wanted to die! Life was no longer -posable. It was too ugly, too base, it lied, everything lied. He could -not breathe. As he crossed the Seine he thought of flinging himself into -it. But another unfortunate had been ahead of him. The banks looked as -if they were blade with flies. Thousands of women and children were -leaning over the parapet, eagerly watching as the drowned man was drawn -out. What feelings stirred them? A very few felt a sadistic thrill. A -few more felt pity. The immense majority felt the attraction of the -unusual event, idle curiosity. A good number, perhaps, looked into their -own hearts to see how a person suffers ("how I might suffer"), to see -how a person dies ("how I might die"). Marc perceived only a base -curiosity, and it horrified him. Kill himself, yes, but not in public! -He was like Annette. He had a shy, fierce pride; he could never make a -spectacle of himself before this rabble, never be mauled by their hands, -violated in his nakedness by their dirty glances. He clenched his teeth -and hurried home, hurried faster, resolved to kill himself. - -In the course of the minute searches which, during his mother's -absences, he had devoted to the apartment he had found a revolver. It -was Noémi's; Annette had picked it up after she had left and placed it, -too carelessly, in a drawer. He had appropriated it and hidden it. His -mind was made up. As, with a child, an act, whenever it is possible, -immediately follows the thought, Marc meant to carry out his resolution -at once. Re-entering the apartment as noiselessly as he had gone out, he -shut himself up in his room and loaded the revolver as he had seen a -schoolmate do: the latter, who was hardly older than himself, had -carried one of these dangerous playthings in his pocket and, holding it -between his legs, in the Greek class, had explained to his attentive -neighbors how to handle it. The weapon was ready now. Marc was prepared -to fire. . . . Where should he place himself? He must not miss. There, -standing before his mirror. . . . But afterwards where would he -fall? . . . It would be better to sit here, leaning on the table, with the -mirror in front of him. He unhooked the mirror, placed it on the table, -and propped it up with a dictionary. . . . There, he could see himself -perfectly. He took the revolver and pressed it. . . . Where? Against the -temple; they say that's the best place. . . . Would it hurt very much? -He did not give a thought to his mother. His passion, his sufferings and -the preparations completely occupied him. . . . His eyes in the mirror -touched his heart. . . . Poor Marc! . . . He felt the need of -expressing, of making known before he disappeared, what he had suffered -from the world and how much he despised it. . . . The need of avenging -himself, of leaving regrets behind him, of arousing admiration. . . . He -hunted up a big sheet of school-paper, folded it across--he was in a -hurry--and wrote in his uncertain, laborious, childish script, "_I -cannot live any longer, for she has betrayed me. The whole world is -wicked. I don't love anything any longer, so I would rather die. All -women are liars. They are mean. They don't know how to love. I despise -her. When they bury me I ask them to put this paper over me: 'I die for -Noémi_.'" - -At this dear name he wept; he pressed his handkerchief against his mouth -in order not to make a noise. He wiped away his tears, reread his lines, -and thought gravely, "I mustn't compromise her." - -Then he tore up the sheet and began again. Almost in spite of himself he -breathlessly dashed off his despairing lines. When he reached the -sentence "_They don't know how to love_," he continued, "_I have known -and I die_." In the midst of his grief he was very much pleased with -this phrase: it almost consoled him. It disposed him to be kind to those -he was leaving behind him, and he ended generously, "_I forgive you -all_." He added his signature. A few seconds more and all would be over; -he would be delivered, and he saw in advance the fine effect it would -produce. But just as he was passing the pen once more over the childish -flourishes where the ink had failed, the door of the little room opened -suddenly behind him. He had just enough time to hide the weapon and the -papers under his arms. Annette saw only the mirror placed against the -dictionary and she thought Marc was admiring himself. She made no -comment. She seemed terribly tired and, in a low voice, as if she were -exhausted, she said she had forgotten to buy milk for dinner and that -Marc would be very kind if he would spare her the trouble of climbing up -and down the four flights by going after it. As for him, he had only one -idea, that she should not see what his arms covered. He did not wish to -move and replied roughly that he did not have the time; he was busy. -With a sad smile, Annette closed the door and went out. - -He heard her slowly descending the stairs. (She had looked worn out.) He -was seized with remorse. He could not forget the expression of her face -and her tired voice. . . . He threw the revolver hastily into a drawer, -buried the _farewells to life_ under a pile of books and rushed out of -the apartment. He jostled his mother on the stairs and called to her, in -a cross voice, that he was going to do the errand. Annette came upstairs -again, her heart somewhat lightened. She was thinking that the boy was -not as contrary as he seemed. But she had been pained by his rudeness -and his harshness. Heavens, how unaffectionate he was! . . . Well, so -much the better for him! Poor child, he would suffer less from -life. . . . - -When Marc came back, he had quite forgotten his intention to commit -suicide. It gave him no pleasure to find the famous Testament, -imperfectly hidden, on his table. He hastened to place it completely out -of sight in the bottom of a band-box. He dismissed the depressing -thought. He felt now how cowardly, how cruel, it would have been to his -mother, whose health worried him. But he expressed his concern clumsily; -he did not know how to ask her about it and she did not know how to -reply. Through misplaced pride he did not want to show his real -feelings; it would have seemed as if he were awkwardly performing a mere -polite duty. And she, as proud as himself, did not want to worry him, -and she turned the conversation away from it. So they both fell back -into their silence. Freed from his anxiety, Marc now felt that he had -the right to be angry with his mother because for her he had sacrificed -his suicide. . . . He was well aware that he no longer felt the least -desire for this; but he needed to avenge himself for what he had -suffered. When you cannot avenge yourself on others you do so on your -mother; she is always there, at hand, and she does not strike back. - -So they remained walled-up, each one absorbed in his own grief. And -Marc, whose own sorrow had begun to weigh upon him, felt his animosity -against Annette's increasing. He was relieved when he heard the -door-bell announcing Aunt Sylvie--for he knew her ring. She had come to -take him to a performance of Isadora's, for she had suddenly gone crazy -over dancing. In spite of the duty that he felt to retain in his soul -and also on his face--especially on his face--the fatal mark of the -ordeal through which he had passed, he could not hide his joy at -escaping. He ran to dress, leaving the door open so as to lose none of -the gay talk of his aunt, who, the moment she had arrived, had launched -into a frivolous story. And Annette, who was forcing herself to smile, -though she was broken-hearted, thought, "Can this be the woman who cried -her heart out a year ago over her child's body? Has she forgotten?" - -She did not envy this elasticity. But her son's laugh, as he answered -Sylvie's sallies from the other room, evidenced an equal gift of -forgetfulness. Annette, who was pained by this apparent heartlessness, -did not know that she too possessed this cruel and marvellous gift. When -Marc reappeared, beaming, ready to start, she could not command her face -enough to conceal her harsh disapproval. Marc was more hurt by this than -he would have been by out-and-out censure. He avenged himself by -exaggerating his gaiety. He became almost noisy and seemed in such a -hurry to get away that he forgot to say good-bye to his mother. He -thought of it after he had gone out. Should he go back? Let her worry! -He pouted. It comforted him to leave behind him that reproachful face, -that sadness, the depressing atmosphere he felt in the house, and the -disturbing traces of the day's troubles. . . . That immense day! . . . A -whole world! . . . Several lifetimes in a few hours, the peak of joy and -the depths of despair. . . He ought to have been crushed under such a -load of emotions, but it weighed no more on the elastic adolescent than -a bird weighs on a branch. The bird flies away, the branch swings back -and sways in the wind. They had flown away, the joys and sorrows of the -day that was past! Only a dream remained of them. To enjoy the new joys -and the new sorrows, he hastened to efface it. - -But Annette, who had no means of knowing what was passing through his -head, Annette, who, like him, was a passionate soul, attributed -everything to herself; and, as she listened to his laughter receding -down the stairs, she was struck to the heart by his joy at leaving her. -She thought he hated her, for her passion always exaggerated things in -every way. . . . She was a burden on him, yes, that was quite clear. He -longed to be free from her. When she was dead he would be happier. . . . -Happier! . . . She would be happier too. It stabbed her through and -through, this absurd thought that her son, her child, might desire her -death. . . . (Absurd? Who can tell? In his innermost heart, in a -moment's madness, what child has not desired his mother's death?) . . . -The terror of this intuition, striking Annette at this moment when she -was holding on to life with one weak hand, was a mortal blow to her. - -All day she had been devastated by the furious return of her passion. -Now that her decision had been made and carried out, the irreparable -deed consummated, now that she had deliberately done her duty, she no -longer had the strength to resist the attack of the enemy within. And -the enemy had rushed upon her like a torrent. - -She was a party to it. She had opened the gates to it. When all is lost, -one has at least the right to enjoy one's despair! My suffering concerns -only myself. Let me feel the whole of it. Bleed, bleed, my heart! Let me -stab you by forcing you to see again all you have lost! Philippe. . . . -He was there before her. . . . The evocation was so strong that she saw -him, spoke to him, touched him. . . . He, everything that she loved in -him, the attraction of that which resembles and that which is opposed to -us, the antagonistic union, burning with the double fire of love and -combat, the embrace and the struggle: they are the same thing. And this -illusory embrace had such a carnal violence that the possessed soul, -possessed by love, bent like Leda beneath the swan. The flood of passion -ebbed despairingly. Then came those agonies that are part of the life of -every woman who is made for love and to whom her share of love has been -refused--agonies that come at this time of life when, if a love dies, -she thinks that love itself is dying. On this night Annette, alone in -her room, abandoned by her son, with her passion mutilated, suffered -tortures in the destitution of her heart, and the haunting belief that -love was lost forever, that life was lost without love, gripped her by -the throat. It did not give her a moment's respite. She drove it away; -it returned. Annette tried in vain to fill her mind with other things. -She picked up her work, tossed it aside, got up, sat down. With her head -on the table, she wrung her hands. The fixed idea maddened her. She had -reached that point of suffering when to escape from herself a woman is -ready for the worst aberrations. Annette felt that she was on the verge -of madness, and she was aware, in her delirium, of a savage impulse, the -frightful desire to go down into the street and to debase herself in her -fury, destroy her body and her tortured heart, prostitute herself to the -first man she met. When she became aware of this bestial thought, she -cried out in horror; and as a result of this horror the infamous idea -would not relax its grip. Then, like her son, she thought of killing -herself. She could no longer control her obsession. . . . - -She rose and went towards the door, but to reach it she had to pass -close to the open window; she decided that, once there, she would fling -herself out! . . . A strange instinct of purity that wished to save her -soul from pollution! That illusory soul! Her reason was not duped by the -conventional morality. But her instinct was stronger and it saw more -clearly. . . . Entirely occupied by her double obsession--the door and -the window--she did not see what was close to her. Walking towards the -window, she struck herself violently in the stomach against the sharp -corner of the sideboard. The pain was so severe that she could not -breathe. Doubled over, with her hands on the wounded spot, she felt a -keen, revengeful joy that her stomach had been struck. She would have -liked to break to pieces in her body the blind and drunken master, the -tiger-god. . . . Then the reaction came. She sank down on a low chair -that fitted in between the sideboard and the window, and her strength -failed her. Her hands were icy, her face beaded with perspiration; the -beating of her disordered heart wavered. Ready to slip into the abyss, -she had only one thought, "Quicker, quicker! . . ." - -She fainted. - - - - -XLIX - - -When she opened her eyes again--(When was it? After a few seconds? . . . -A gulf . . . )--her head was thrown back as if on a block, her neck was -lying against the window-sill, her body wedged into the narrow angle of -the wall. She opened her eyes and over the dark roofs, in the July -night, she saw the stars. . . . One of them pierced her with its divine -gaze. - -Silence, unprecedented, vast as a plain. . . . Yet the wagons were -rolling by in the street below; the glasses on the sideboard vibrated. -She heard nothing. . . . Suspended between earth and sky. . . . "_A -noiseless fight_." . . . "_She was not entirely awake_. . . ." - -She put off the moment. She was afraid of finding again what she had -left behind--the horrible lassitude, the torment, the snare of love: -love, maternity, implacable egoism, that of nature who cares so little -for my troubles, who only watches till I awaken so as to break my -heart. . . . Never to wake again! . . . - -She became conscious, none the less. And she saw that the enemy was no -longer there. Her despair had vanished. . . . Vanished? No, it was still -there, but it was no longer in her. She saw it outside. She heard its -rustle. . . . Magic. . . . A terrible music disclosing unknown -spaces. . . . Paralyzed, Annette heard, as if some invisible hand were -conjuring it up in the room, the sound of sobbing, the Fatum of a Chopin -prelude. Her heart was flooded with a joy she had never before experienced. -It had nothing but the name in common with the poor joy of everyday life -which is afraid of pain, which only exists because it denies pain, -denies that immense joy which is also pain. . . . Annette listened with -closed eyes. The voice stopped. There was an expectant silence. And -suddenly from the torn soul a wild cry of deliverance flew upward as if -on wings. As a diamond leaves its track on a piece of glass, it streaked -across the vault of the night. In her exhaustion, as she lay on her hard -pillow, Annette, on the threshold of this night of sorrow, gave birth to -a new soul. . . . - -The silent cry whirled far away and disappeared in the abyss of thought. -Annette remained silent and motionless. A long time. . . . At last she -rose, her neck aching, her limbs stiff. But her soul was delivered. An -irresistible force pushed her towards the table. She did not know what -she was going to do. Her heart was in her throat. She could not keep it -all to herself. She took up her pen and, in a whirlwind of passion, -without metre, in a rough and jerky rhythm, in a single torrent, she -poured out the flood of pain. . . . - - -You have come, your hand holds me,--I kiss your hand. -In love, in fear,--I kiss your hand. - -Love, you have come to destroy me. I know it well. -My knees tremble. Come, destroy!--I kiss your hand. - -You eat the fruit and fling it away: bite my heart, it is yours! -Blest be the wound your teeth make!--I kiss your hand. - -You want me--all; but, possessing all, you will possess nothing. -You leave nothing but ruins.--I kiss your hand. - -To-morrow your hand, caressing me, will kill me. -Even as I kiss it, I await the mortal stroke of your hand. - -Kill me! Strike! In doing me evil, you will do me good. -You deliver me, destroyer.--I kiss your hand. - -Every blow that makes me bleed breaks a bond. -You tear away the chains with the flesh.--I kiss your hand. - -You break the prison of my body, murderer, -And through the breach my life escapes.--I kiss your hand. - -I am the broken soil from which rises the grain -Of the sorrow that you sowed.--I kiss your hand. - -Sow the sacred sorrow! May all the sorrow of the world -Come to ripeness in my breast.--I kiss your hand, I kiss your -hand. . . . - - -Tempest, sea-waves crashing against the rocks, a soul laden with spray, -flashing with lightning, a surf foaming with passions and tears dashed -up towards the sky. . . . - -And at the last cry of the wild birds the soul fell back suddenly. And -Annette, exhausted, flung herself on her bed and slept. - - - - -L - - -When morning came, nothing remained of the sorrows of the night but a -light snow that melted in the sun. . . . _Cosi la neve al sol si -disigilla_. . . . And the aching peace of a body that has fought and -knows it has conquered. - -She felt satiated, satiated with her grief. Grief is like passion. To -deliver oneself from it, one has to glut oneself with it. But few people -have the hardihood to do this. They feed the snarling dog with crumbs -from their table. The only people who conquer grief are those who dare -to embrace its excess, who say to it, "I take you to myself. You shall -bring forth children through me. . . ." That powerful embrace of the -creative soul, as brutal and fertile as actual possession. . . . - -On the table Annette found what she had written. She tore it up. These -disordered words had become as unbearable to her as the feelings they -expressed. She did not want to disturb the sense of well-being that -pervaded her. She had a feeling of relief, as if a knot, a link of the -chain, had just been broken. . . . And in a flash she had a vision of -the chain of servitudes from which, one by one, the soul slowly frees -itself through a series of existences, its own and those of others (they -are all the same). . . . And she asked herself: "Why, why these eternal -attachments, these eternal ruptures? Towards what liberation does desire -drive us in its sanguinary progress?" - -It was only for a moment. Why worry about what is going to happen? It -will pass, just like what has already happened. We know quite well that, -no matter what happens, we shall make our way through. As the saying -goes, that old heroic utterance of prayer and defiance: "May God only -not lay upon our shoulders heavier burdens than we can bear!" - -She had borne hers, that of a day. Well, one day at a time! . . . She -was eased in heart and body. . . . To strive, _to seek_, NOT _to find, -and not to yield_. . . . "It's all right. It's all right. . . . I -haven't wasted my time. . . . Leave the rest to to-morrow!" - -She rose. She was naked, and from over the roofs the morning sun bathed -her body and the room. . . . She was happy. . . . Yes, in spite of -everything! - -Everything about her was just as it had been yesterday: the sky, the -earth, the past and the future. But everything that had crushed her -yesterday was radiant to-day. - -Marc had come home very late in the evening. He had enjoyed himself -without his mother, and now he felt remorse at having left her alone and -made her sit up for him. For he knew that Annette would not go to bed -until he had returned, and he had expected an icy reception. Although he -was in the wrong he assumed as he went upstairs--if only for that -reason--an attitude of defiance. With an insolent smile on his lips, -although at bottom he was not sure of himself, he picked up the key from -under the doormat and opened the door. Hanging up his coat in the -vestibule, he listened. Silence. Nothing stirred. Noiselessly, he -tiptoed into his room and went to bed. He felt relieved. Serious matters -could wait until to-morrow! But before he was entirely undressed he was -seized with anxiety. This stillness was not natural. . . . Like his -mother he had a vivid imagination and one that was easily disturbed. . . . -What had happened? . . . He was a thousand miles from suspecting the -deadly storms that had raged that night in the room adjoining his own. -His mother was inexplicable and disturbing to him. He never knew what -she was thinking. Seized with alarm, in his nightshirt and bare feet, he -went and pressed his ear to Annette's door. He was reassured. She was -there. She was asleep; her breathing was loud and uneven. He pushed open -the door, fearing that she was ill, and stole up to the bed. By the -light from the street he saw her, stretched out flat on her back, with -her hair over her cheeks, with that tragic face which, in nights of old, -had stirred the curiosity of her companion Sylvie. Her breast rose and -fell heavily, harshly, violently, with difficulty. Marc was seized with -fear and pity for all the weariness and suffering he divined in this -body. Bending over the pillow, in a low, trembling voice, he murmured -"Mamma." - -As if she had heard the call from far away in her sleep, she made an -effort to free herself and groaned. The child drew back, frightened. She -relapsed into her immobility. Marc went back to bed. The thoughtlessness -of his age, the fatigue of the day, got the better of his anxiety. He -slept without waking until morning. - -When he got up, the fancies and fears of the past evening returned. He -was surprised that his mother was not yet visible. As a rule, she came -into his room to kiss him and say good-morning while he was in bed. She -had not come in this morning. But he heard her coming and going in the -neighboring room. He opened the door. Kneeling on the floor, she was -dusting the furniture and did not turn round. Marc said good-morning to -her. She turned her smiling eyes on him and said, "Good-morning, my -dear." Then she went on with her work, paying no more attention to him. - -He expected she would ask him about his evening. He detested these -questions, but when she did not ask them he was vexed. She went into her -room, put it in order and finished dressing. It was time for her -classes; she was getting ready to go out He saw her looking at herself -in the mirror, with dark circles about her eyes, her face still showing -lines of fatigue, but with a light in her eyes! Her mouth was smiling. -He was astonished at the sight. He had expected to find her sad and he -was even ready to pity her in his heart; this disturbed his plans. The -little man's logic was upset by it. - -But Annette had her own logic. "The heart has its reasons" which a sense -higher than reason understands. Annette had ceased to worry about what -others might think. She knew now that you must not ask others to -understand you. If they love you, it is with their eyes closed. They -don't close them often! . . . "Let them be as they wish to be! Whatever -they are, I love them. I cannot live without loving them. And if they -don't love me I have enough love in my heart both for myself and for -them." - -She smiled into the mirror with a smile that came from far deeper depths -than her eyes, smiled at the fire of which they were a spark, at eternal -Love. She let her arms fall from her head, turned towards her son, saw -the child's troubled face, remembered his evening out, took hold of the -tip of his chin, and, letting the syllables drop, said gaily, "You were -dancing? I'm so glad! And now you must sing!" - -She laughed as she saw his amazed expression, caressed him with her -eyes, kissed him on his nose and, picking up her bag from the table, -went out, saying, "Good-bye, my little cricket!" - -In the vestibule he heard her whistling a careless tune. (It was a -talent he envied her even while he despised it, for she whistled much -better than he.) - -He was indignant! This indecent gaiety after all the evening's -anxiety. . . . She had escaped him. He denounced the eternal -caprices of women, their lack of seriousness, as he had heard -others do . . . "_la donna mobile_." - -He was about to go out when a piece of paper in the scrap-basket caught -his attention. At a distance the sharp, prying eyes of the rapacious -child unthinkingly deciphered a few words on a fragment of the sheet. He -stopped short. . . . These words. . . . His mother's writing! He picked -them up, read them feverishly, at random at first, one at a time. These -flaming words! . . . As they were torn into bits, the emotion they called -up, interrupted in the midst of its flight, was all the more -fascinating. . . . He gathered them together, rummaged in the basket for -the smallest fragments, took them all and patiently pieced them -together. His hands trembled at the secret he had captured by surprise. -When he had assembled all the pieces and was able to grasp the poem as a -whole, he was completely taken aback. He did not understand it very -well, but the wild fervor of this solitary song revealed to him unknown -depths of passion and grief that exalted and dismayed him. Was it -possible that these stormy cries had come from his mother's breast? . . . -No, no, it wasn't possible! He wouldn't have it. He told himself that -she had copied them from a book. . . . But from what book? He couldn't -ask her. . . . And yet, suppose it wasn't taken from a book . . . ? The -tears came, the need of crying out his emotion, his love, a longing to -throw himself into his mother's arms, at her feet, to open his heart to -her, to read her own . . . And he couldn't do it. . . . - - -When his mother came home at noon for lunch, the boy, who had spent the -whole morning reading and copying the torn fragments and had thrust them -in an envelope into his breast, said nothing to her. Sitting at his -table, he even refrained from rising and turning his head towards her -when she entered. The more burning was his desire to know, the stiffer -was the constraint that led him to conceal his anxiety under a mask of -insensibility. If, after all, these tragic words were not Annette's! -Doubt returned to him at the sight of his mother's tranquil face. . . . -But the other, the upsetting doubt, persisted all the same. . . . -Supposing they were hers? . . . This woman, my mother? . . . Facing her -at table, he did not dare look at her. . . . But when her back was -turned and she moved about the room, looking for something, carrying a -plate, he stared at her eagerly with questioning eyes that asked: "Who -are you?" - -He could not define his troubled, fascinated, uneasy impression. But -Annette, full of her new life, noticed nothing. - - - - -LI - - -In the afternoon they went out, each about his own business. Marc -watched his mother in the distance. He was torn by conflicting feelings: -he admired her, he was irritated by her. . . . Women were too much for -him! Women, every woman. At times they were so close, at other times so -very far away! A strange race. . . . Nothing about them is like -ourselves. One never knows what is going on in them, why they laugh, why -they cry. He scorned them, he despised them, he needed them, he pined -for them! He was angry with them just because of this obsession. He -could have bitten the neck of that woman who was walking by as he had -bitten Noémi's wrist--as he would have liked to bite it--till the blood -flowed! At this sudden memory his startled heart gave a leap. He -stopped, turned pale and spat with disgust. - -He crossed the Luxembourg Gardens, where the young men were playing. He -looked at them enviously. The best part of him, his secret desires, went -out towards manly activity, without love, without women--sport, heroic -games. But he was weakly: an unjust fate, his illness as a child, had -placed him in a position of inferiority in the race of his own -generation. And his sedentary life, his books, his dreams, the -companionship of women, the two sisters, had poisoned him with this -venom of love, transmitted by his mother, his aunt, his grandfather, by -all the blood of the Rivières. How he would have liked to spill that -blood, to open his veins! Ah, how he envied those young men with their -beautiful limbs, empty of thought, full of light! - -All the riches that were his he despised. He could think of nothing but -those of which he was deprived, the games and contests of harmonious -bodies. And in his injustice he did not see that other contest which his -mother was waging so close to him. . . . - -She walked on. The summer was pouring its splendid waves over the city. -The blue gaze of the sky bathed the tops of the houses. . . . How good -it would have been to be far away from the city in the fields! . . . But -that was more than she could ask for: Annette did not have the means to -leave Paris. No doubt Marc would be able to go off for a few weeks with -his aunt to some beach in Normandy. But Annette would not go; her pride -would not allow her to be a charge on her sister. Besides, ever since -the days when she had seen them with her father, she had felt an -aversion for summer-resorts, with all their bored people, those -flirtations of the idle and the curious. She would stay at home alone. -She did not mind this. She carried within herself the sea and the sky, -the sunsets behind the hills, the milky fogs, the fields stretching out -under the shroud of moonlight, the calm death of the nights. In the -August afternoon, breathing the warm air, amid the uproar of the streets -and the flood of human beings, Annette crossed Paris with the quick, -sure step, the light, rhythmical step of other days, noting everything -as she passed and yet very far away. . . . In the great, dusty street, -shaken by the wheels of the heavy autobusses, she was wandering in her -thought under the vaults of the forest in that Burgundian countryside -where she had spent her happy childhood, and her nostrils caught the -odor of bark and moss. She was walking over the fallen autumn leaves. A -rain-laden wind swept through the stripped branches, brushing her cheek -with its damp wing; a bird's song flowed magically through the silence; -the rain-laden wind passed her. . . . Through these woods the young -Annette passed also with her weeping lover, and there was the hawthorne -hedge, there were the bees about the abandoned house. . . . Joys and -sorrows. . . . So far away! She smiled at her own youthful image to -which suffering was still so new. . . . "Wait, my poor Annette, you are -only at the beginning. . . ." - -"Do you regret nothing?" - -"Nothing!" - -"Neither what you have done nor what you have failed to do?" - -"Nothing, deceitful spirit! Were you trying to spy out my regrets? You -will find that your labor is lost! I accept everything, everything I -have had and everything I have not had, my whole lot, wise and foolish. -Everything has been as it should have been, the wise and the foolish. -One makes mistakes: that is life. But it is never quite a mistake to -have loved. Although age is overtaking me, my heart, at least, has no -wrinkles. And although it has suffered, it is happy to have loved." And -her grateful mind turned, with a smile, to those whom she had loved. - -There was much tenderness in this smile and not a little French irony. -Touched as she was at the thought of them, Annette perceived, curiously -enough, the ridiculous side of all these torments, her own and those of -others . . . that pitiful fever of desire and waiting! For what was she -waiting? An end of love, for herself. For the others, too, in their -turn! - -She saw the others, her son, with his burning hands, quivering to grasp -the uncertain future; Philippe, dissatisfied with the commonplace food -that society offered his devouring hunger; Sylvie, trying to forget and -looking to the future that would fill the gaping emptiness of her heart; -the multitude of ordinary people yawning over the boredom of their life; -and youth, restless youth, wandering and waiting. . . . For what was it -waiting? Towards what were its hands stretched out? - -Liberated from herself, she looked at all these burden-bearers, saw that -herd, that mob in the streets, hastening, running, each ignoring every -one else, each as if pursued by the sheep-dogs, and, under the apparent -disorder, the sovereign rhythm--all believing they directed themselves, -all directed. . . . Towards what? Whither was he leading them, the -invisible shepherd? . . . The good shepherd? . . . No! Beyond good and -evil. . . . - -She gave her lessons as usual, patient and attentive, listening kindly, -explaining clearly, making no mistakes. Even as she spoke, the dream -continued to envelop her. Whoever has formed the habit finds it easy to -live two lives at a time, one on a level with the ground, with other -men, the other in the depths of the dream that is bathed by the inner -sun. One neglects neither of them. One reads them both with a glance as -a musician's eye reads a score. Life is a symphony: each moment of life -sings in several parts. The reverberation of this warm harmony brought -the color to Annette's face. Her pupils to-day were astonished at her -youthful air, and they conceived for her one of those strong attachments -which the young feel for their elders, the Heralds of life, and which -they dare not confess. Annette knew nothing of the wake of love that her -passing left that day in the hearts of those who were near her. - -She came home towards evening in the same aerial state. With her light -heart, she felt as if she were moving on air. She could not have -explained it. The powerful enigma of a woman enveloped in her own -radiance, in a joy without apparent reason, even in the face of reason! -Everything that surrounds her, the whole external world is, at these -moments, only a theme for the free improvisations of the passionate -fantasy of her dreams. - -She threaded her way, in the streets, through anxious groups of people. -The newsboys were running about shouting the news which the passers-by -were discussing. She saw and heard nothing. From a passing tram someone -shouted something to her; she recalled who it was a moment -later--Sylvie's husband. Without hearing what he said she had replied -with a gay wave of her hand. . . . How excited everyone was! . . . Once -more she had the brief sense of a dizzy current which, like the whirling -spirals of star-dust, was rushing through a crevice in the vault into -the abyss that drew it down. . . . What abyss? . . . - -She climbed up to her apartment. Marc was awaiting her on the threshold, -his eyes shining, and behind him, Sylvie, very much excited. They were -eager to tell her the news. . . . What was it? Both spoke at once; each -of them wanted to be the first. . . . - -"But what on earth are you trying to tell me?" she said, laughing. - -She distinguished one word, "War." - -"War? What war?" But she was not surprised. . . . The abyss. . . . "So -it was you? For a long time I have felt your breath drawing us -down. . . ." - -Their exclamations went on. To please them she roused herself--a -little--from her somnambulistic state. . . . "War? Well, so be it! War, -peace, it's all life, all part of the game. . . . I'll take my -share! . . ." - -She was a good player, the enchanted soul! - -"I challenge God!" - - - - -THE END - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SUMMER *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following -the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use -of the Project Gutenberg trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Summer</p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Romain Rolland</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Translator: Eleanor Stimson and Van Wyck Brooks</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: December 4, 2021 [eBook #66882]</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Laura Natal Rodrigues</div> - -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SUMMER ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/summer_cover.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - - -<h1>SUMMER</h1> - -<p><br /></p> - -<h4>BEING VOLUME TWO OF</h4> - -<h5><i>The Soul Enchanted</i></h5> - -<p><br /></p> - -<h5>By</h5> - -<h2>ROMAIN ROLLAND</h2> - -<p><br /></p> - -<h5><i>Translated from the French by</i></h5> - -<h3>ELEANOR STIMSON & VAN WYCK BROOKS</h3> - -<p><br /></p> - -<h4>NEW YORK</h4> - -<h4>HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY</h4> - -<h5>1925</h5> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p> -<i>Summer</i> is the second volume of a work in several volumes that bears -the title: <i>The Soul Enchanted</i>. -</p> -<p> -The first volume is entitled <i>Annette and Sylvie</i>. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">To strive, to seek, <i>not</i> to find, and not to yield.</span> -</div></div></div> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CONTENTS</h4> -<p class="nind"><a href="#PART_ONE">PART ONE</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#I">I</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#II">II</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#III">III</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#IV">IV</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#V">V</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#VI">VI</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#VII">VII</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#VIII">VIII</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#IX">IX</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#X">X</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XI">XI</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XII">XII</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XIII">XIII</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XIV">XIV</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XV">XV</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XVI">XVI</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XVII">XVII</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XVIII">XVIII</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XIX">XIX</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XX">XX</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XXI">XXI</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XXII">XXII</a><br /> -<a href="#PART_TWO">PART TWO</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XXIII">XXIII</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XXIV">XXIV</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XXV">XXV</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XXVI">XXVI</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XXVII">XXVII</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XXVIII">XXVIII</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XXIX">XXIX</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XXX">XXX</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XXXI">XXXI</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XXXII">XXXII</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XXXIII">XXXIII</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XXXIV">XXXIV</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XXXV">XXXV</a><br /> -<a href="#PART_THREE">PART THREE</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XXXVI">XXXVI</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XXXVII">XXXVII</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XXXVIII">XXXVIII</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XXXIX">XXXIX</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XL">XL</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XLI">XLI</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XLII">XLII</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XLIII">XLIII</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XLIV">XLIV</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XLV">XLV</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XLVI">XLVI</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XLVII">XLVII</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XLVIII">XLVIII</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XLIX">XLIX</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#L">L</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#LI">LI</a></p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><i>SUMMER</i></h4> - -<h4><a id="PART_ONE">PART ONE</a></h4> - -<p><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="I">I</a></h4> - -<p class="vspace dropcap"> -On the half-light of the room, with its closed shutters, Annette was -sitting on her bed, smiling, with her white dressing-gown wrapped about -her. Her unbound hair, which she had just washed, covered her shoulders. -Through the open windows could be seen the motionless, golden warmth of -an August mid-afternoon; without observing it, one felt out there the -torpor of the Jardin de Boulogne sleeping in the sunlight. Annette -shared in this beatitude. She could rest there for hours, stretched out, -without stirring, without thinking, without needing to think. It was -enough for her to know that there were two of her; and she did not even -make an effort to talk with the "little one" who was inside her, -because—of this she was sure—he felt what she felt, they -understood one another without speaking. Waves of tenderness passed through -the happy somnolence of her body. And then she relapsed again into a happy -smile. -</p> - -<p> -But if her mind was drowsy, her senses had retained a marvelous -clairvoyance; they followed from moment to moment the fine vibrations of -the air and the light. . . . A fragrant odor of strawberries in the -garden. . . . She enjoyed it with her nostrils and her tongue. Her -amused ear caught the slightest sound, the leaves brushed by a breeze, a -footstep on the gravel, a voice in the street, a bell ringing for -vespers. And the rumble ascending from the great crowds: Paris in -1900 . . . the summer of the Exposition. In the vat of the Champ de Mars -thousands of human grapes were fermenting in the sun. . . . Far enough -away, yet close enough to the monstrous bubbling to feel its presence -and to be safe from it, Annette rejoiced in the contrast of the peace -and the shade of her nest. Vain tumult! The truth dwells within -me. . . . -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="II">II</a></h4> - -<p> -Her hearing, subtle and wandering like that of a cat, seized upon every -sound that passed, one after another, and idly let it fall again; from -the floor below she caught the ring of the door-bell and recognized the -little steps of Sylvie, who was always in a hurry. Annette would have -preferred to be left alone. But she was so solidly settled in her -happiness that, no matter who came, nothing could disturb her. -</p> - -<p> -It was only eight days since Sylvie had received her news. Since last -spring she had heard nothing from her sister. A personal adventure that -had not affected her very much had yet been enough to fill her thoughts: -she had not realized how long the silence had been. But when the affair -was settled and she found her mind free again, with time to think of it, -she began to be troubled. She went to her aunt at the Boulogne house for -news. She was very much surprised to hear that Annette had come back -some time before. She was rather inclined to give the forgetful soul a -good snubbing, but Annette tactfully turned her to another subject that -surprised her; gently but feelingly, she had simply told her the whole -story. Sylvie found it very difficult to listen to the end. That -Annette, the sensible Annette, had done this mad thing and refused to -marry afterwards, no, it was unheard of, she simply wouldn't tolerate -it! . . . This little Lucretia was scandalized. She railed at Annette; -she called her an idiot. Annette remained calm. It was plain that -nothing could make her change her mind. Sylvie realized that she had no -hold on this obstinate soul: she would have liked to give her a good -whipping! . . . But how was it possible to remain angry with such a -lovable person who listened as you spoke with such a disarming smile! -And then the mysterious charm of this maternity. . . . Sylvie -anathematized it as a calamity, but she was too much a woman not to be -touched. . . . -</p> - -<p> -And to-day she had come again, with her mind made up to give Annette a -good raking over the coals, to break down her stupid resistance, to -oblige her to insist on marriage. . . . "If you don't, if you don't, I -shall be furious! . . ." She came in like a gust of wind, smelling of -rice-powder and battle. And to make a start, without saying -good-morning, she began scolding about this mad way of passing one's -days, shut up in the dark. But catching sight of the happy eyes of -Annette, who stretched out her arms to her, she ran to her and hugged -her. She went on scolding: "Fool! Silly! Arch-fool! . . . With her -sweeping hair over her long white dressing-gown she looks like an -angel. . . . But what a mistake it would be to think she was! . . . The -sanctimonious wretch! The little scamp! . . ." -</p> - -<p> -She shook her. Weariedly, contentedly, Annette let her have her way. -Sylvie stopped in the middle of her tirade, took her sister's forehead -between her hands and pushed back her hair. "She is fresh, she is pink, -never have I seen her with such beautiful color. And that look of -triumph! Good reason for it! Aren't you ashamed?" -</p> - -<p> -"Not in the least!" said Annette. "I am happier than I have ever been -before. And so strong, so well. For the first time in my life I feel -complete, I desire nothing more. This longing that is going to be -fulfilled for a child goes back so far in my life! Ever since I was a -child myself. . . . Yes, when I was seven years old I was already -dreaming of it." -</p> - -<p> -"That's a fib," said Sylvie. "Only six months ago you told me you had -never felt that maternity was your vocation." -</p> - -<p> -"Do you really think that? Did I really say that?" said Annette, -disconcerted. "It's true, I did say it. But I haven't lied, just the -same, either now or then. . . . How explain it? I am not pretending. I -remember clearly." -</p> - -<p> -"I know how it is," said Sylvie. "When I have a fancy for something, I -often immediately remember that I have never wanted anything but that -since the day I was born." -</p> - -<p> -Annette frowned; she was not satisfied. "The nature I feel to-day is my -real nature. It always has been, but I didn't dare confess it to myself -before the time came; I was afraid I was mistaken. Now . . . Oh! now, I -see that it is even more beautiful than I had hoped. And it is my whole -self. I want nothing more." -</p> - -<p> -"When you wanted Roger or Tullio," said Sylvie maliciously, "you wanted -nothing more." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, you don't understand anything! . . . Can the two things be -compared? When I was in love (what you call 'love'), it wasn't I who -wished it, I was forced. . . . How I suffered from that force that held -me, without being able to resist it! . . . And now you see how my little -one has come to my rescue when I was struggling in the bonds of the -misery they call love, how he came, how he has saved me. My little -liberator!" -</p> - -<p> -Sylvie began to laugh. She had not in the least understood her sister's -reasons. But she did not need any reasons to understand her maternal -instinct: on that subject the two sisters would always be in accord. -They began to chat affectionately about the little unknown creature (was -it going to be a man or a woman?)—discussing a thousand nothings, -serious and foolish, about its coming, things about which a woman never -wearies of chattering. -</p> - -<p> -They had been talking this way for a long time when Sylvie remembered -that she had come to administer her lesson, not to sing a duet. -"Annette," she said, "enough of this nonsense! There is a time for -everything. Roger owes you marriage, and you must insist on it." -</p> - -<p> -Annette made a weary gesture. "Why go back to that? I have told you that -Roger offered it to me and that I refused." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, when one has been stupid one should recognize it and change." -</p> - -<p> -"I have no desire to change." -</p> - -<p> -"Why don't you want to? You loved this man. I am sure you still love -him. What has happened?" -</p> - -<p> -Annette was unwilling to reply. Sylvie insisted, tactlessly seeking for -the deep, personal reasons for their disagreement. Annette made an -impatient gesture. Sylvie looked at her, astonished. Annette's -expression was angry, her brows were knitted, her eyes full of -irritation. -</p> - -<p> -"What's the matter with you?" -</p> - -<p> -"Nothing," said Annette, turning aside hastily. -</p> - -<p> -Sylvie had touched a wound that she wanted to forget. Through an -inconsistency she could not have explained, but which came from the -depths of her nature, she who rejoiced at the coming of the child bore a -grudge against the man who had given it to her; she could not forgive -herself because her senses had been taken by surprise, because of the -passion that had betrayed her in this way—she could not forgive the -man who had seized such an opportunity. This instinctive recoil had been -the true, hidden reason (hidden from her as from the others) for her flight -from Roger and her refusal to see him again. In the depths of her being -she hated him because she had loved him. But as her mind was -straightforward she repressed these instincts which she felt to be evil. -Why was Sylvie forcing her to become aware of them? . . . -</p> - -<p> -Sylvie looked at her and insisted no more. Annette, calm again, ashamed -of what she had allowed to become visible, of what she had seen herself, -tried to change the subject and said quietly, "I don't want to marry. I -am not made for these exclusive bonds. You may tell me that millions of -women get used to them, that I exaggerate their seriousness. But I am -made in such a way that I take everything seriously. If I give myself, I -give myself, too much, and then I am smothered; I feel as if I were -drowning with a stone around my neck. Perhaps I am not strong enough. My -personality is not firmly established. Ties that are too close are -bind-weeds that drain my energy; and there is not enough left for me. I -try to please the 'other person,' to be like the image of what he wants -me to be, and this ends badly. For in renouncing too much of one's -nature one loses one's self-respect and cannot live any more; or one -revolts and causes suffering. No, I am an egoist, Sylvie. I was made to -live alone." -</p> - -<p> -(Although she was not in any sense lying, she was uttering pretexts that -masked the truth from herself.) -</p> - -<p> -"You amuse me," said Sylvie. "You are the last woman to live without -love." -</p> - -<p> -"I hate it," said Annette. "But it will not catch me again now. I am -protected from it." -</p> - -<p> -"Beautifully protected!" said Sylvie. "He won't protect you in the -least; you will have to protect him. You don't want to bind yourself, -but have you thought of the fetters this little bundle is going to mean -for you?" -</p> - -<p> -"Happiness! With my arms filled, these arms that have been empty so -long!" -</p> - -<p> -"You are talking without thinking. Who is going to bring him up?" -</p> - -<p> -"I." -</p> - -<p> -"What about the father? He has rights over his child." -</p> - -<p> -A new cloud of irritation passed over Annette's brows. . . . Rights! -Rights over his child! . . . His child! The child of that man, that -blind moment which he has already forgotten and which binds me for -life! . . . Never! . . . My child is mine! . . . She said, "My child -belongs to me." -</p> - -<p> -"He will belong to whom he likes." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I know whom he's going to like!" -</p> - -<p> -"Seducer! And suppose that, in spite of everything, he reproaches you -some day for depriving him of a father!" -</p> - -<p> -"I shall fill his heart so full that there won't remain the tiniest -place for regrets for anyone else." -</p> - -<p> -"You are a monster of egoism." -</p> - -<p> -"I said I was." -</p> - -<p> -"You will be punished." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, so much the worse for me if I can't make him love me! What's to -prevent me from loving him and why shouldn't he love me?" -</p> - -<p> -"If you really love him you should think first of his future. Plenty of -other people have been obliged to accept a disagreeable marriage for the -sake of the child." -</p> - -<p> -"You revolt me," said Annette, "praising those women who condemn -themselves to a false marriage, sometimes one built on hatred, out of -love for the child. You remind me of that mother who told her daughter -she had endured hell for her sake by remaining married. The daughter -replied: 'Do you think hell is a good home for a child?'" -</p> - -<p> -"The child needs a father." -</p> - -<p> -"But how about the thousands of people who have gone without one? How -many have never known one at all! How many have lost their fathers in -early childhood and have been brought up by their mothers alone! Are -they inferior to other people? The child needs a protecting love. Why -should not mine be enough?" -</p> - -<p> -"You overestimate your strength. Do you know what is awaiting you?" -</p> - -<p> -"I know, I know! The little arms of a child about my neck." -</p> - -<p> -"But do you know the price the world will make you pay for it? It would -be much better for you to be married and an adulteress four times over -than to have people brand you with the name of an unmarried mother. To -dare to assume the pains and responsibilities of motherhood without -having first accepted the stamp of their official marriage is something -for which a woman of their class is never pardoned. It would be all -right for me. What people like myself do is of no consequence. Your -bourgeois people even find that it pays to have things so. They are -ready enough to praise free love in the working-class, as they do in -<i>Louise</i>, but a girl of the bourgeoisie belongs in a private preserve. -You are their property. They can buy you by contract, before a lawyer; -you can't give yourself in the presence of heaven and say, 'It's my -right.' Good Lord, where would we end if property revolted against its -master and said, 'I am free! Let anyone who wishes come and cultivate -me.'" -</p> - -<p> -Even when she was indignant Sylvie could not speak seriously. -</p> - -<p> -Annette smiled and said, "Customs are made by man. I know. He condemns -the woman who dares to have her children outside of marriage without -dedicating herself for life to the father of her children. But for many -women this means slavery, for they do not love their husbands. Many a -woman would remain free and alone with her little ones if she had the -courage. I shall try to have it." -</p> - -<p> -Sylvie said, with a touch of pity, "Poor innocent! Your life has been -shielded from hardships by the double windows of this bourgeoisie that -shuts you in with its prejudices—and its privileges also. Once you -leave it, you will never be allowed to enter it again, and you will have -a glimpse then of what life is!" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, Sylvie, that's only fair; you are right in saying that I have -been privileged; it will be good for me to have my share in what you -suffer." -</p> - -<p> -"Too late! One must learn that in childhood. At your age it's no longer -possible. Luckily you are rich, you will never know material suffering. -But the other, moral suffering . . . your class will cast you out, -public opinion will condemn you, every day you will have to endure some -little insult. . . . You have a proud and tender heart. It will bleed." -</p> - -<p> -"It will bleed, but one enjoys happiness all the more if one has to pay -for it. I want nothing but health and an honest mind. Public opinion has -no terrors for me." -</p> - -<p> -"But what if your child suffers from it?" -</p> - -<p> -"Would they dare? Well, we shall fight together against the cowards." -</p> - -<p> -Sitting upright again on her bed, she shook her hair like a lioness. -</p> - -<p> -Sylvie studied her, did her best to preserve her look of severity, was -unable to do so, laughed, shrugged her shoulders and sighed, "Poor -little idiot!" -</p> - -<p> -Annette coaxingly asked her, "Will you help us?" -</p> - -<p> -Sylvie hugged her furiously. And she shook her fist at the wall. -"Beware, anyone who touches you!" -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -She left. Annette, fatigued by the discussion, fell back into her -reverie. This time she had won in the encounter with her sister. But one -disturbing thing remained from the conversation, one word uttered by -Sylvie . . . Would the child some day reproach her? . . . -</p> - -<p> -Stretched out on her back, with her hands crossed over her breast, she -listened to what was within her. The tiny creature was beginning to -stir. Annette, with her lips closed, spoke to him as she had so often -done. She asked him if she was doing right in keeping him for herself -alone; she begged him instantly to tell her if she was right, if he was -satisfied: for she would do nothing for which he could blame her. -Whereupon the child, naturally enough, replied that she was doing right, -that he was satisfied. He said he wanted to be hers, hers alone, and -that in order to dedicate herself to him she should remain free and live -with him alone. She and he. . . . -</p> - -<p> -Annette laughed with happiness. Her heart was so full that she could not -speak. And with her head heavy and intoxicated with her joy she fell -asleep. . . . -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="III">III</a></h4> - -<p> -As soon as Annette's condition began to be visible, Sylvie obliged her -sister to move away from Paris. It was the beginning of autumn; before -long her friends would be coming back from their vacations. Surprisingly -enough, Annette offered no resistance. She was not afraid of public -opinion, but anything that might mean discord just now would have been -intolerable to her; nothing must disturb her harmony! -</p> - -<p> -She allowed herself to be conducted by Sylvie to a place on the Côte -d'Azure, but she did not stay there. It offered her no peaceful -seclusion. The neighborhood of the sea made her feel uncomfortable. -Annette was a landswoman. She could marvel at the ocean, but she could -not live on familiar terms with it. She submitted to the powerful -fascination of its breath, but this breath was not beneficial to her. It -reawoke in her too many hidden anxieties; it aroused what she did not -wish to be conscious of . . . not yet, not now. . . . There are beings -whom we do not love because, they say, we are afraid to love them. (Does -that mean we do love them?) Annette fought against the sea because she -was fighting against herself, against a dangerous Annette from whom she -was trying to escape. . . . -</p> - -<p> -She set out again northward, to the neighborhood of the Savoyard lakes, -and took quarters for the winter in a little town at the foot of the -mountains. Sylvie was only informed after she was settled. Kept in Paris -by her work, she could only make her sister brief, occasional visits, -and it troubled her to know that Annette was alone in this forsaken -spot. But Annette, during this time, could not be alone enough, nor -could the spot be sufficiently forsaken. She would have found a -hermitage delightful. The richer her inner life was, the more need she -felt for a clear, soundless atmosphere. She did not suffer, as Sylvie -supposed, from being abandoned to strange hands in her condition. In the -first place, she had so much affection to give that no one seemed to her -a stranger, and, as sympathy attracts sympathy, she did not long remain -a stranger to anyone else. It was not that the country-people, who had -little curiosity, put themselves out to know her. They bowed back and -forth, exchanged a few cordial words as they passed, or from their -doorsteps or over the hedges. They wished each other well. Probably in -case of need she could not have counted too far on this good will, but, -such as it was, it still meant a good deal in the daily round. The days -were lighter for it. Annette found the cool kindness of these good -souls, of whom she knew nothing and who left her alone, more to her -taste than the tyrannical exactions of relatives and friends who assume -over us the rights of heavy-handed guardians. -</p> - -<p> -Mid-November. . . . Sitting by the window, sewing, she looked out at the -new-fallen snow over the fields and the white-capped trees. But her eyes -returned to a wedding announcement. . . . The marriage of Roger Brissot -to a young girl of the political world in Paris. (Annette knew -her.) . . . Roger had lost no time. The Brissot ladies, angered by -Annette's flight, had hastened to bring about another wedding before people -should begin to gossip about their son's discomfiture, and Roger, in his -resentment, had accepted their choice. Annette could feel no surprise, -nor could she complain. She forced herself to think that she was glad -for poor Roger's sake. But the news disturbed her more than she would -have wished. So many memories quivered in her soul and her flesh! And -there, in that flesh, was the life brought into being by him. . . . In -the depths of the shadow, the agitations of those former days were -stirring. . . . No, no, Annette would not allow them to come out into -the open! She felt an aversion for those fevers of the past. Everything -that was sensual wearied her. Disgust, revolt. And that animosity. (She -acknowledged it now.) The echo of the ancestral hatred of the female for -the male who has fertilized her. -</p> - -<p> -She sewed; she sewed; she wanted to forget. Often when she was nervous -and saw a dangerous cloud gathering on the horizon, she had recourse to -the prayer-wheel of work. She sewed, and her thoughts slipped back into -their proper order. -</p> - -<p> -So they slipped back to-day. After half an hour of silent application, -her anxiety had passed, her smile had reappeared. As Annette lifted the -forehead that was bent over her work, her eyes were peaceful and she -said, "So be it!" -</p> - -<p> -The sun laughed over the snow. Annette left her work and dressed to go -out. Her ankles and her feet were a little swollen and she had to force -herself to walk; but once she was outside she found that she enjoyed it. -For her little companion was with her as she strolled along. He was -making his presence known now. In the evening especially he measured the -dimensions of his nest; he groped about in all directions. -</p> - -<p> -"Heavens, how narrow this is!" he seemed to say. "Is it never going to -end?" -</p> - -<p> -Then he went to sleep again. By day, when she was out walking, he was -well-behaved. But he seemed to be looking out through his mother's eyes, -for to these eyes everything appeared to be new. What fresh colors! -Nature had just placed them on the canvas. Annette's cheeks too had a -beautiful color. Her heart beat more vigorously and her blood ran. She -enjoyed every odor, every taste; when nobody was looking she would eat a -little snow by the roadside. Delicious! She remembered that as a child -she had done the same thing when her nurse's back was turned. And she -sucked the stems of the damp, frozen reeds. She had a shiver of -epicurean delight down the whole length of her throat; as the snowflakes -melted on her tongue, she too melted with the luxurious pleasure of it. -</p> - -<p> -After she had walked for an hour or two in the country, along the snowy -roads, alone yet not alone, alone but with all the company in the world, -under the grey canopy of the winter sky, listening to the song of her -own springtime, she turned back towards the town, her cheeks whipped red -by the cold wind, her eyes shining. Before the baker's window she would -yield to the attraction of some dainty made of chocolate or honey. (What -a glutton the little fellow was!) Then she would go and sit down, at -nightfall, in the church, before an altar, dark and golden like the -honey. And she who had no practical religion, no religious faith—or -thought she had no faith—would remain there till they closed the -doors, dreaming, praying, loving. Night fell; the altar-lamps, faintly -swinging, collected the last gleams in the darkness. Annette became -stiff, chilly, a little numb in her woolen overcoat as she warmed -herself at her own sun. A holy calm was within her. She was dreaming for -the child of a life enveloped in sweetness, in silence—in her own -loving arms. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="IV">IV</a></h4> - -<p> -On one of the first days of the year the child was born. A boy. Sylvie -arrived just in time to welcome him. In spite of her suffering, which -drew from her an occasional groan—no tears, Annette, interested, -absorbed, was a little disappointed to find, surprisingly, that she was -more present at the event than the cause of it. The great emotion she -had expected had not appeared. When travail begins, one is caught in a -trap. No means of escaping: one has to go through with it. One resigns -oneself and bends all one's strength to reach the end as quickly as -possible. One's mind is clear, but one's energy is entirely occupied in -enduring the pain. One scarcely thinks of the child at all. No room for -tender or exalted feelings. Those that have previously filled one's -heart vanish. It is truly hard, harsh "labor," a labor of the flesh and -the muscles, wholly physical, with nothing beautiful or beneficent about -it. Up to the very moment when one's liberation comes, when one feels -the little body slip from one's own body . . . At last! -</p> - -<p> -Then, instantly, one's joy returns. With her teeth chattering, worn out, -almost collapsing at the bottom of an Arctic ocean, Annette stretched -out her cold hands to grasp and press to her own bruised limbs her -living fruit—her dearly beloved. -</p> - -<p> -There were no longer two of her now. They were no longer two in one, as -before. A fragment of herself was detached in space like a little -satellite, drawn by gravity about a star, an additional tiny force the -effect of which was immense in the psychic atmosphere. A strange thing -that, in this new couple formed by the segmentation of a being, the -larger should depend more for support upon the smaller than the smaller -upon the larger. Its wailing cry, through its very weakness, was a -source of strength for Annette. Oh, the wealth that comes to us from a -loved one who cannot exist without us! Annette, with her stiffened -breasts, at which the little animal greedily tugged, eagerly poured into -the body of her son the flood of milk and hope with which she was -swollen. -</p> - -<p> -Then began to unroll the first touching cycle of the <i>vita nuova</i>, -that discovery of the world, as old as the world, which every mother -experiences again as she bends over the cradle. The tireless watcher -awaiting with beating heart the awakening of her Sleeping Beauty. In his -sapphire eyes, with their violet depths, Annette found herself -reflected—they were so brilliant. What did it see, this gaze, as -indefinite and limitless as the great blue eye of heaven—empty or -profound, one couldn't say which? And what sudden shadows were cast upon -this pure mirror by those clouds of suffering, those invisible furies, -those unknown passions, come heaven knows whence! Was it from her past -or from his future? The face or the reverse of the same medal. . . . -"You are what I have been. I am what you will be. What will you be? What -am I?". . . Annette questioned herself in the eyes of her sphinx. And as -she observed this consciousness rising hourly from the depths, she lived -over again, without realizing it, in this homunculus, the birth of -humanity. -</p> - -<p> -One by one little Marc opened his windows to the world. There began to -pass over the uniform surface of his liquid stare more definite gleams, -like a flock of birds seeking for a place to alight. After a few weeks -the flower of a smile appeared on the living shrub. And then the birds -that had settled there began to chirp. Forgotten was the tragic -nightmare of the first days, forgotten the terror of the unknown earth, -the cries of the being brutally dragged from the maternal shell, cast -naked and bruised into the cruel light. The little man was comforted and -took possession of life. And he found it good. He explored it, touched -and tasted it greedily with his mouth, his eyes, his feet, his hands, -his back. He gloried in his prize, playing in astonishment with the -sounds that emerged from his pipe. One prize more, his voice! He -listened to himself singing. But his singing did not give him more -delight than it gave his mother. Annette was intoxicated by it. This -little stream of a voice made her heart melt. The shrill cries that rose -from the instrument gave her an exquisite pleasure as they pierced her -ear. -</p> - -<p> -"Cry louder, my darling! Yes, assert the life that is in you!" -</p> - -<p> -He asserted it with an energy that had no need of encouragement. Joy, -anger, whims, he protested them loudly in every key. Annette, who was a -novice in motherhood and a scandalously bad educator, found it all -charming; she did not have the strength to resist these tyrannical -appeals. She would get up ten times during the night rather than hear -him groan. And from dawn to dark she let him cling to her breast like a -greedy leech. The child could not have been happier, but it was not very -good for her. -</p> - -<p> -When she saw her sister again in the spring, Sylvie found her thinner, -and she was disturbed. Annette still seemed to be just as happy, but her -expression had become a little feverish; the tears came into her eyes at -any affectionate word. She admitted that she did not sleep enough, that -she did not know how to get proper help, and she felt inadequate before -the practical difficulties that arose in regard to the care and health -of the child. She said all this, affecting to laugh at her -faint-heartedness, but the fine assurance she had felt at the outset had -vanished. She was startled to discover that she was not as robust as she -had thought; as she had never been ill, she had not known the limits of -her strength, and she believed she could use it uncalculatingly. She -realized now that these limits were narrow and that she could not pass -them with impunity. What a fragile thing life is! At other times this -realization would not have affected her. But now that her life was -double, and someone else, even more fragile than herself, depended upon -this fragile thing. . . . Heavens, what would happen if she disappeared? -During her sleepless nights Annette turned this fear over in her mind -many a time. . . . She listened to her sleeping child, and at the least -change in its respiration, a slightly quicker breath, a cry or even a -silence, her own heart stopped beating. And as soon as this anxiety had -once entered it took up its abode in her. Annette no longer knew the -solemn, carefree calm of the night hours when the motionless body and -the thought-free mind, dreaming without sleeping, floated like -water-flowers, motionless, on the nocturnal pond. An Elysian quietude, -in which the grace that is granted one is only felt by the heart after -it has been lost. Henceforth, the watching soul is distrustful every -moment. In the most confident moments apprehension lies concealed. -</p> - -<p> -Sylvie was not mistaken. Under Annette's valiant smile, as she joked -about her weakness, she perceived how physically disordered she was, -perceived her animal need of joining her own kind again. She decided -that Annette should leave her retreat and come back and settle in some -house in the country a few hours from Paris where Sylvie could see her -almost every day and the news of her return would not become known. -Annette had no objection, but she insisted upon returning boldly to her -own house in Paris. She would not hear of any opposition to this. In -vain Sylvie pointed out to her that it would be most unwise, that her -peace of mind would be endangered. Annette was immovable. Her pride -would not endure anything that looked like running away in the face of -public opinion. During the happy year when she had been brooding over -the child, she had not thought of public opinion. She had lived alone -with her happiness; there was no room for a third person. For several -months her happiness had not diminished; she would have liked the world -to know of it, and it was painful to her to admit to herself that she -must hide it. The constant thought of this had hurt her. What, did she -have to conceal as something shameful this jewel that was all her pride? -She would seem to be denying it! -</p> - -<p> -"Deny you, my treasure!" She kissed him passionately. "I should not have -run away. I should have forced people to accept you from the very -beginning. But no more of this secrecy! I shall show you to people and -say, 'Look at my beautiful baby! You other mothers haven't anything like -him, have you?'" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="V">V</a></h4> - -<p> -She returned to Paris and settled there. The daughter of Raoul Rivière -knew very well that it would not be so easy to induce people to accept -her situation. But although she had inherited her father's contemptuous -attitude towards the world, she had not acquired from him the habit of -yielding outwardly to its prejudices in order to escape from it all the -more effectively. She meant to face it down and get the better of it. -</p> - -<p> -Her first experience was favorable enough. In Annette's absence her old -Aunt Victorine had remained in charge of the house, as she had done now -for many years. This diminutive person of more than sixty had a fresh -complexion, unwrinkled cheeks and tight little ringlets close about her -face. Calm, gentle, inoffensive, excessively timid, she had kept herself -sheltered from everything that might have disturbed her. From her -childhood Annette had always seen this Dame Trot of an aunt about the -house, looking after all the bothersome domestic duties, seeing that -everything was clean and comfortable and watching over the kitchen (for -she was an epicure), playing the part of an old family servant for whom, -just because she was part of the household furniture, nobody put himself -out. Her opinions had no weight; as a matter of fact, she had none. In -the course of the thirty years she had passed under her brother's roof -Aunt Victorine might have seen and heard strange things. But she had -seen nothing, heard nothing. It would have required force to make her -see what she did not wish to see. Raoul had taken no precautions. In his -circle of intimates he called her the deaf-mute of his seraglio. He made -fun of her to her face, fooled her, was rude to her, called her a -blockhead, made her cry, and then coaxed her back into a good humor, -gave her a noisy smack on both cheeks and induced her to coddle him as -if he had been a big boy. She had remembered him as a man with a heart -of gold, indeed as a saint—which would have amused him very much in -his grave if, for a Raoul Rivière, a tireless lover of the superficial -things of this world, anything that lay beneath had been worth so much -as a smile. -</p> - -<p> -It would not have been difficult for Annette to impress upon Aunt -Victorine's eyes an equally advantageous image of her personality. She -had inherited, along with the house, the worship which the old family -tabby rendered to the master. The only thing that was necessary was not -to disturb her illusions. Annette hesitated a long time before making up -her mind to do so. She had kept her aunt in ignorance of her adventure. -In leaving Paris she had used her health and her desire to travel as a -pretext. Far as this was from corresponding with the facts, her aunt had -appeared to believe it; she was not inquisitive and shrank from hearing -anything that might upset her. But, sooner or later, she had to know the -truth. Sylvie, after the child's birth, undertook to inform her. The -poor woman was completely taken aback. It was very hard for her to -understand the situation; she had never been brought face to face with -anything of the kind. She sent Annette several frantic letters, so -incoherent that Annette might have thought—at her age people have no -pity—that Aunt Victorine herself had just had the baby. She consoled -her as best she could. Sylvie was convinced that the old lady would -leave the house. But to leave the house was the last thought that could -have entered Aunt Victorine's head. For the rest, her mind was thrown -into the most inextricable confusion. She was quite incapable of giving -any advice, for advice was what she herself needed. The only thing she -could do was to lament. But one does not live by lamentation, and, as -one has to live in spite of everything, she ended by discovering in -Annette's misfortune a trial sent by heaven. She was beginning to get -used to it, in the absence of her niece, whose removal kept the -disgraceful occurrence at a distance, when Annette announced that she -was coming back. -</p> - -<p> -Annette was deeply moved on her return home. Sylvie had come to the -station to meet her. Aunt Victorine could not make up her mind to do -this; and, when she heard the house-door opening, she precipitately -mounted the stairs which she had half descended and ran and shut herself -up in her room. There Annette found her in tears. Her aunt, throwing her -arms about her, repeated, "My poor child! How is it possible? How is it -possible?" -</p> - -<p> -Annette, more disturbed than she wished to appear, assumed an air of -assurance and said bluntly, with a laugh, "There will be time enough to -explain it all. Let's go down to dinner now." -</p> - -<p> -The old lady allowed herself to be led downstairs. She continued to -whimper. Annette said to her, "Hush, hush, dear aunt! You mustn't cry." -</p> - -<p> -Her aunt tried to remember what she had wanted to say. There were a good -many things, lamentations, rebukes, questions, exclamations. But out of -them all she could extract nothing: nothing emerged but one great sigh -after another. Annette took her at once into the presence of the baby, -who was sleeping blissfully, its whole little body relaxed and plump, -its head thrown back. She fell into an ecstasy and clasped her hands: -the old retainer's heart instantly swore fealty to the new head of the -house. From this moment, young once more, she attached herself to the -chariot of the little god. At times she remembered that, in spite of -all, he was an object of scandal, and she found herself in confusion -again. Annette, talking with an affected indifference, watched with the -corner of her eye the good old face that was growing so long. "Come, -what's the matter?" she asked. "You must give some reason." -</p> - -<p> -Once more Aunt Victorine began her confused lamentations. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," said Annette, drumming with her fingers. "Yes . . . But, after -all, what's to be done? Would you like to have us lose our dear little -boy?" -</p> - -<p> -(She knew very well what she was doing in making a point of this coaxing -"our.") -</p> - -<p> -Her superstitious aunt, quite upset, protested, "Annette, don't say -that. It's dangerous. How can you say such things?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, then, you mustn't look that way. As long as our little one is -here, as long as he has come, what are we going to do about it? What -better can we do than to love him and be happy?" -</p> - -<p> -Her aunt might have replied, "Yes, but why should he have come?" But she -no longer had the strength to wish him away. Morality might have wished -it. The world and religion. Dignity and peace of mind. Peace of mind, -above all, perhaps. Her innermost thought, which she did not confess to -herself, was, "Heaven help us! If only that unhappy child had not told -me anything about it!" -</p> - -<p> -In the end, as it was impossible to reconcile contradictory thoughts, -Aunt Victorine ceased to think at all. Abandoning herself to instinct, -she became the old hen that has spent her life bringing up the chicks of -others. She accepted it. -</p> - -<p> -But Annette had no particular reason to congratulate herself. There are -allies who bring more trouble than help. Through her aunt, annoyances -from outside speedily began to reach Annette. Madame Victorine was a -gossip, and she lent her ear to everything the neighborhood had to say -about her niece's return. She would come running home, bathed in tears, -to repeat it to Annette. Annette would scold her affectionately, but she -could not help being affected by this stupid tittle-tattle. When the old -woman came in she would wonder now with a shiver, "What is she going to -tell me this time?" -</p> - -<p> -She forbade her to talk. But when her aunt was silent, it was even -worse, thanks to what she did not say, her sighs, her look of distress. -And Annette was storing up an increasing irritation against this -poisonous public opinion which she pretended to ignore. -</p> - -<p> -If she had been prudent she would at least have avoided occasions for -coming in contact with it. But she was too much alive to be prudent. -People are only prudent when they have suffered from not being so. Human -nature is so made that Annette, who contemptuously turned her back on -the judgment of the world, burned to know what people were saying behind -her back. And, dreading every morning that the day would not pass -without bringing her the echo of some disturbing remark, she was ready -to go out in search of them when no such remarks came. She was spared -the trouble. From her family, from her cousins of both sexes, with whom -she maintained only the most distant connection, she received -scandalized letters and lectures that she could hardly endure. Their -claim to pose as judges of her conduct and champions of the family honor -should have seemed less irritating than grotesque to one who, like -Annette, had been only too well informed by her father about the secret -history of the family and knew how to take the measure of these -Aristarchuses. But Annette was in no laughing mood: she would seize her -pen and send off a biting reply, which added spite to their other -motives for condemning her and rendered the latter implacable. -</p> - -<p> -These austere censors could invoke as an excuse for their intervention -the much abused but still customary rights of relationship. But what -rights did strangers have to be severe with her, strangers who were not -harmed in any way because she did as she chose with herself? Meeting in -the street some amiable society woman in whose drawing-room she had once -been received, she would stop to exchange a few civil words. The other, -looking her over curiously and letting her talk, scarcely answering -herself, would presently pass on with a cold politeness. One woman, to -whom Annette had written asking for some information, did not reply. -Pursuing her inquiry, Annette wrote to a friend of her mother's, an old -lady whom she respected and who had shown some affectionate feeling for -herself; she suggested going to see her. In reply came an embarrassed -letter, expressing regret that the latter was unable to receive her: she -was leaving Paris. These little constantly repeated affronts wounded -Annette's sensibility. She was afraid of other rebuffs, but the strange -thing was that this fear led her nervously to provoke them. -</p> - -<p> -For example, in the case of her friend Lucile Cordier. The two young -women had known each other for a long time. In the society where they -moved Lucile was the person whom Annette liked best; and without being -very intimate they had always enjoyed seeing each other. Annette learned -from her aunt that Lucile's sister was going to be married. She had had -no word of this from Lucile. She wrote to congratulate her. Lucile -remained silent. Annette knew she ought not to insist. And yet she did -insist, through a strange need of being sure, of suffering. -</p> - -<p> -She went to Lucile's house. There was a sound of voices in the -drawing-room. It was her day at home. Annette remembered this just as -she entered the room. It was too late to turn back. The conversation was -animated. A dozen persons, almost all known to Annette. At her -appearance the voices stopped point-blank. Only for a few seconds. -Annette, anxious, but feeling that she was committed to a fight, -entered. With a smile on her lips, without looking to right or left, she -went up to Lucile. Lucile rose, embarrassed. Small and blonde, with -half-open, caressing, gentle and yet shrewd eyes, a tired little smile, -a mouse-like expression and rather prominent teeth, lively, indifferent -to people and ideas while appearing to be devoted to the former and -attached to the latter, she was cautious, weak, and not very frank; she -liked to please; she was anxious not to fall out with anyone and to get -along with everyone. So far as she was concerned, Annette's conduct had -not troubled her at all. Her sharp, inquisitive nose, always on the -alert, was amused by scandal. The adventure struck her as absurd and -would merely have diverted her if, from the worldly point of view, it -had not been embarrassing. When Annette wrote to her that she was coming -back, Lucile had thought, "What bad luck! How am I going to answer her?" -</p> - -<p> -She did not want to hurt Annette. On the other hand, she did not wish to -run the risk of being misjudged. Not being able to think of anything to -say in reply, she had put it off from day to day. She expected to see -Annette, but later (there was no hurry about it!)—when people would -not know about it. This did not prevent her from talking at Annette's -expense and assuming a scandalized air when she was with others. -</p> - -<p> -And now Annette's sudden appearance placed her—("This is too -much!")—under the obligation of making an immediate choice. Lucile -was much more angry with Annette for playing this mean trick on her than -for having had a child. ("Two, if she likes, if she would only leave me -alone!") -</p> - -<p> -With a furious little light in her eyes that was quickly extinguished, -she took the hand that Annette held out to her, answering her smile with -that honeyed smile of her own which Annette knew so well. (No one could -resist its tender seductiveness.) It lasted only for a moment. With all -those eyes flashing about her, with every ear alert, Lucile at once -perceived the irony of the company. Instantly her expression froze; -after a few words of welcome she affectedly resumed the interrupted -conversation, and with an unexpressed understanding everyone began to -talk again. -</p> - -<p> -Annette, left outside the conversation, realized that she was rejected. -But she did not accept this at all. She knew the weakness of Lucile's -character. Armed with her proud smile, seated in the midst of a group -which, without appearing to see her, seemed to be wholly occupied in -exchanging words that were as empty as they were lively, she glanced -about with her calm eyes at everybody in the room. The glances of the -others, meeting hers, turned aside to avoid her. One pair of eyes, -however, did not have time to escape. They remained fixed upon her, full -of annoyance and spite. Annette recognized the large doll-like face of -Marie-Louise de Baudru, the daughter of a rich lawyer, the wife of a -judge, whose family had always remained socially on cordial terms with -the Rivières while cherishing towards them a deep-seated antipathy. -Marie-Louise de Baudru incarnated in her stout person the most -substantial qualities of the upper bourgeoisie: order, probity, the lack -of curiosity, of charity, especially of intelligence, all the legal -virtues, a firm verbal faith, empty as a butcher's shop of doubts and -thought, and the religious worship of propriety, all the proprieties, -her family, her property, her country, her Church, her moral code, her -tradition and her negations. In short, a massive and compact ego like a -block obstructing the sun. No room, near her, for the tub of Diogenes! -Nothing was so repugnant to the Baudrus as independence of any kind, -religious, moral, intellectual, political or social. A natural aversion! -They confounded all its forms under the common taunt of "anarchism." -This anarchism they had always suspected in the Rivières. And -instinctively Marie-Louise, like the rest of her family, had distrusted -Annette. She could not pardon the liberty which Annette had enjoyed in -her education and her life as a young girl. There may have been a touch -of envy in these unkind judgments. One sole consideration kept her from -expressing them, the Rivières' fortune. Wealth commands esteem: it is one -of the pillars—the firmest—of the social order. But this is on -condition that it does not disturb the basis of everything, the legally -established family. The supporters of society are on the watch there: -hands off! Annette had struck at the cardinal principles. The watch-dog -had awakened, though it held its peace, for it does not bark in society. -But its look spoke for it, Annette perceived the bitterest scorn in that -of Marie-Louise de Baudru. Her eyes rested calmly on those of her plump -judge; and, addressing her with a little familiar bow, she forced her to -respond. Marie-Louise, choking with anger at not being able to resist -the injunction, bowed also, avenging herself by giving her coldest look. -Annette had already turned indifferently away, and her eyes, which were -making the tour of the drawing-room, returned to Lucile. -</p> - -<p> -Quite unembarrassed, she threw herself into the conversation that had -begun. She cut into the story Lucile was telling with a general remark -and obliged her to reply. They had to make room for her. They could not -help listening to her politely, with interest and even pleasure, for she -was so witty. But they did not reply, their minds wandered, they talked -about other things. The conversation died away, started up again in -little bursts, jumping from subject to subject. In the silence Annette -heard herself talking in a detached tone, and she listened to her own -voice as if it were that of a stranger: true woman that she was, fine, -sensitive and proud, she missed none of these little humiliations. -Accustomed from childhood to understand and use the equivocal language -of drawing-rooms, she could divine, under the veil of deliberate -inattentiveness, dubious smiles, disingenuous politeness, the wounds -that were intended for her. She was hurt, but she laughed, and she went -on talking. The others were thinking, "What poise that girl has!" -</p> - -<p> -Lucile took advantage of the departure of one of the guests to accompany -her to the door and escape from Annette. The latter found herself -abandoned to a group that had made up its mind to ignore her. Giving up -any attempt to prolong the ordeal, she was on the point of rising to -leave in turn when, crossing the drawing-room, Marcel Franck approached -her. He had come in some time before, though she had not noticed him, -for all her attention was occupied by her effort not to yield to the -discouragement that was overcoming her. And as, with a humorous pity, he -watched her talking, he admired her pride. He said to himself, "What -made you come here and brave these idiots? Crazy little thing! It's -enough to wring one's heart." -</p> - -<p> -He decided to lend her a helping hand. He bowed to her pleasantly. -Annette's grateful eyes lighted up. Everybody about them became silent, -all those hard, watching faces. "Well," he said, "so the globe-trotter -is back again. Have you had enough of '<i>contemplé son azur, ô -Méditerranée'</i>?" -</p> - -<p> -He wanted to turn the conversation to some harmless subject. But what -demon drove her on? Pride, the instinct of bravado, or simply frankness? -She replied gaily, "So far as the azure is concerned, I have scarcely -contemplated anything for months but my baby's eyes." -</p> - -<p> -A little breeze of irony passed over those who were near them. Smiles -and glances were discreetly exchanged. But Marie-Louise de Baudru rose -indignantly; red, with her stout breast swollen with enough angry -contempt to burst her gown, she pushed back her chair and, without -bowing to anyone, started for the door and went out. The temperature of -the drawing-room fell several degrees. Annette remained alone in her -corner with Marcel Franck. He looked at her, sorry for her, half -banteringly, and murmured, "You are imprudent." -</p> - -<p> -"How imprudent?" she asked in a clear voice. -</p> - -<p> -She seemed to be looking for something at her feet. Then she rose, -without haste, and, coldly bowing and bowed to, went out. -</p> - -<p> -No one who saw her in the street, walking along with her rhythmic step, -her head high, her cool, correct, indifferent air, would have suspected -the storm of contempt that was making her wounded heart leap. But, once -in the Boulogne house, she shut herself up in her room with the child -and pressed him to her with bitter tears. And she laughed defiantly. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="VI">VI</a></h4> - -<p> -There were plenty of interesting houses in Paris where Annette would -have been honorably received—especially in the society that should -have been familiar to the daughter of Rivière the architect, among those -artists who live on the fringe of social Philistia, who, though they are -endowed with the traditional family spirit, have no prejudices and carry -the bourgeois virtues even into free unions. But Annette had little -acquaintance among the women of the artistic world. With a very orderly -mind and reserved manners that were anything but Bohemian, she had -little taste for their habits and conversation, though she had plenty of -respect for their great qualities of courage, good nature and endurance. -For it is certainly true that in ordinary life relations are founded -much less on respect than on a community of instincts and habits. -Besides, Raoul Rivière had long ago dropped his old companions. As soon -as his success had permitted him to enter the sphere of wealth and -official honors, this man of strong appetites had broken with the <i>haud -aurea mediocritas</i>. He had been too intelligent not to appreciate the -society of men who worked more than that of the Parisian drawing-rooms -which he criticized among his intimates with cruel irony, but he had -established himself in the latter because it gave him a wider pasturage. -He had managed to escape secretly into other and very mixed circles, -where he was able to satisfy his passion for pleasure and his need of -unrestrained independence, for he led a double or triple life. But few -were aware of this, and his daughter had had no knowledge of anything -but his outward and business life. -</p> - -<p> -Annette's social circle was virtually limited to this rich and more or -less distinguished upper bourgeoisie which, as a new reigning class, has -ended by diligent effort in creating for itself a shadow of tradition. -Indeed, along with the other attributes of power, it has purchased the -lamp of enlightenment—a lamp, however, that only shines from under a -heavy shade and dreads nothing so much as being moved, nothing so much -as the enlarging of the illumined circle on the table; for the least -change of position threatens to destroy its certitudes. Annette, who -instinctively loved the light, had sought for it where she could, in -those university studies which in her set were regarded as pretentious. -But the light she had found there had been much filtered; it was the -light of lecture-rooms and libraries, refracted, never direct. There -Annette had acquired a certain boldness of thought that was entirely -abstract and did not prevent the best of her comrades from being timid -and completely chaotic in the face of reality. Another film was -interposed between her eyes and the daylight outside, her fortune. In -spite of all she could do, this barrier separated her from the general -community. Annette did not suspect how shut in she was. That is the -other side of wealth: it is a privileged enclosure, but an enclosure -none the less, a garden that is walled in. -</p> - -<p> -And this was not all. Now that she had to leave her circle, Annette, -who, for a long time, had fearlessly considered what was awaiting her, -did not want to do so. Let him who disapproves of the illogical condemn -her! Man—woman still less—is not all of a piece, especially at -those transitional ages when the instincts of revolt and rebirth are -mingled with the conservative habits that paralyze them. One cannot at a -stroke liberate oneself from the prejudices of one's environment and the -needs one has acquired. Even the freest souls cannot do so. One has -regrets, doubts, one wants to lose nothing, one wants to have everything. -Annette, in her sincerity, with her need of love, with her need of being -free, with her desire not to be false, was still anxious not to -sacrifice her acquired advantages. She was willing to withdraw from her -social set; she could not endure being rejected by it; she could not -accept the idea of forfeiting it. And her youthful pride, which life had -not yet forced to lower its crest, refused to seek asylum in another -environment that was socially more humble, even if she respected it -more. This, in the eyes of the world, would have been to admit that she -was conquered. It was better to be isolated than <i>déclassée</i>. -</p> - -<p> -Trifling as these considerations were, they were not unreasonable. In -the struggle between the conventions of a class and one of its revolting -members who braves them, the class, which forms a solid block against -the imprudent soul as it casts him forth, drives him elsewhere and -watches for his weaknesses in order to justify its interdiction. -</p> - -<p> -In the world of Nature as soon as a symptom of weakness appears, and -some creature reveals itself as an object of prey, spider-webs are -stretched about it. There is nothing unfair about this, nothing -sinister. It is merely the natural law. Nature is always hunting. -Everyone in turn is hunter or hunted. Annette was the hunted. -</p> - -<p> -The hunters made their appearance. All unsuspecting, Annette received a -call from her friend Marcel Franck. -</p> - -<p> -She was alone in the house. The baby had gone out for his daily airing; -her aunt was with him. Annette, who was rather tired, was resting in her -room. She was not expecting to see anyone, but when Marcel's card was -brought to her she gladly sent word for him to come in. She was grateful -to him for having taken her part at Lucile's. Not that he had -compromised himself. But she had not expected that. -</p> - -<p> -Stretched out in her <i>chaise longue</i>, she received him unceremoniously -as an old friend. She was still in her morning négligé. Since she had -become a mother, she had lost her devotion to order and the meticulous -correctness that Sylvie had teased her about. Marcel was the last person -to mind this. He found her prettier than ever, with a fresh, attractive -plumpness, a gentle languor, a dewy look in her eyes which were softened -with happiness. Annette talked quite without reserve; she was pleased to -see once more the discerning confidant of her old hesitations. She liked -his intelligence, his intellectual tact; he inspired confidence in her. -Franck revealed all his old cordiality and fine comprehension, but from -the beginning of the conversation she was struck by the suggestion of a -new familiarity in his manner. -</p> - -<p> -They recalled their last meeting before Annette's unfortunate visit at -the Brissots' in Burgundy, and Annette agreed that Marcel had seen all -too clearly what was going to happen. She was anxious to speak of the -impossibility of her marriage to Roger, but a blush spread over her face -as it occurred to her that Marcel looked at the whole matter in quite a -different way and considered it a joke. Marcel remarked mischievously, -"You saw it as well as I." And he laughed at the turn the adventure had -taken. -</p> - -<p> -He had the air of being a sort of accomplice. Annette was confused, and -she concealed her feeling with a touch of irony. Marcel went a step -further: "You saw it much better than I did. We men are absurd enough to -believe that we can teach women out of our own precious wisdom, and we -get caught instead when, with their insidious voices, their big, -beautiful eyes, they anxiously ask us what they ought to do. They know -very well. They flatter our folly. We love to teach, but they can give -us cards and spades. When I foretold that you would not be caught in the -Brissots' net, I never suspected that you would escape from its meshes -in such a masterly way. It was a wonderful stroke. Well done! What can't -you do when you set your mind on it! I compliment you on your courage." -Annette listened to this with a feeling of embarrassment. How strange it -was! She had undertaken to vindicate her right to behave as she had -done; the other day, at Lucile's, she had been ready to affirm it -against the whole universe. But it made her uncomfortable to hear -herself praised in this tone by Marcel. Her modesty and her dignity were -hurt. "Don't compliment me," she said. "I have less courage than you -think. I didn't desire in advance what has happened. I never thought of -it." -</p> - -<p> -Then, seized with a scruple and too proud to lie, she continued, "I am -mistaken. Yes, I did think of it. But only to fear it, not to desire it. -And that is what remains incomprehensible to me. How could I have let it -happen, the thing I feared, that I didn't want?" -</p> - -<p> -"Quite natural," said Marcel. "What we fear hypnotizes us. After all, it -doesn't follow that because we fear a thing we don't desire it. But -everyone does not dare to do what he is afraid to do. You did dare. You -dared to make a mistake. One has to make mistakes in life. We learn -through our mistakes, and we must learn. Only, while you were daring, I -do think, my friend, that you might have taken precautions. Your partner -seems to me very much to blame for having left you with this burden to -bear." -</p> - -<p> -Annette, a little shocked, said, "It is not a burden to me." -</p> - -<p> -Marcel supposed that Annette in her generosity wanted to excuse Roger. -"You still love him?" he asked. -</p> - -<p> -"Whom?" Annette asked. -</p> - -<p> -"Good!" said Marcel, laughing. "Evidently you don't still love him." -</p> - -<p> -"I love my baby," said Annette. "The rest belongs to the past. And, as -for the past, one no longer feels sure that it ever existed. One doesn't -understand it any more. It's sad." -</p> - -<p> -"That has its charm too," said Marcel. -</p> - -<p> -"Not for me," said Annette. "I am not a dilettante. But my son is the -present, and it is a present that will last longer than I." -</p> - -<p> -"The present that repulses us, the present to which we in turn shall be -the past some day." -</p> - -<p> -"So much the worse for me!" said Annette. "Even so, it will be good to -be trampled on by his little feet." -</p> - -<p> -Marcel laughed at this passionate outburst. "You can't understand me," -said Annette. "You have not seen Marc, my little masterpiece. And even -if you saw him, you wouldn't know how to look at him. You are a good -judge of pictures, statues, useless knick-knacks. You couldn't judge -that unique marvel, the body of a little child. It would do no good for -me to describe him to you." -</p> - -<p> -She did describe him, however, lovingly and at length. She laughed at -her own ardent, exaggerated expressions, but she could not keep them -back. She broke off as she saw Marcel's indulgent, bantering look. "I am -boring you. Excuse me! You don't understand, do you?" -</p> - -<p> -"Of course." Marcel understood. Marcel understood everything. Everyone -to his own taste. He would not dispute that. -</p> - -<p> -"In short," he said, "to sum it up, you have blossomed out into -maternity. You have flown in the face of public order and the family as -established by law. And, far from regretting it, you defy authority." -</p> - -<p> -"What authority?" Annette asked. "I defy nothing." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, then, public opinion, tradition, the Code Napoléon." -</p> - -<p> -"I have nothing to do with all these things." -</p> - -<p> -"That's the worst kind of defiance, the kind people will never pardon. -But so be it! You have broken with everything, you have rid yourself of -the whole clan. What are you going to do now?" -</p> - -<p> -"Just what I did before." -</p> - -<p> -Marcel looked sceptical. -</p> - -<p> -"What, do you think I can't live as I used to do?" -</p> - -<p> -"It would hardly be worth while. And besides . . ." -</p> - -<p> -Marcel unhappily recalled the call at Lucile's: if she wished to resume -her old place in society Annette would meet with little success. She -knew this: it was unnecessary for anyone to tell her, and in her wounded -pride she had no desire to repeat the experience. But she was surprised -by Marcel's insistence in pointing this out to her; he was usually more -tactful. -</p> - -<p> -"Well," she said, "it matters very little now that I have my child." -</p> - -<p> -"But you can't reduce your existence merely to him." -</p> - -<p> -"I don't think that would be reducing it. Enlarging it, I should say. I -see a world in him, a world that is going to grow. I shall grow with -it." -</p> - -<p> -With much solicitude and no less irony, Marcel set to work to prove to -her that this world would not be enough for a nature as eager and -exacting as hers. With knitted brows and a pang at her heart Annette -listened to him. Mentally, in her irritation, she protested, "No, no!" -</p> - -<p> -She could not help being anxious, however, when she remembered that once -before Marcel had had such clear foresight. But why was he so bent upon -convincing her of it? Why should he take so much trouble to prove to her -that she should profit by the liberty she had won, that she should not -be afraid of living on the fringe of society? (He called it "outside and -above the bourgeois conventions.") -</p> - -<p> -There were in Annette two or three Annettes who always bore one another -company. As a general thing, only one spoke while the others listened. -Just now two of them were speaking at once: the passionate, sentimental -Annette who was the victim of her impressions and their willing dupe, -and another who observed and was amused at the hidden motives of the -heart. She had good eyes. She saw through Marcel. They had changed -places. Formerly it had been he who read her secret thoughts. To-day, -to-day there had come to Annette (just when?—exactly from the moment -of her 'metamorphosis') an insight into souls and their secret -movements—intermittent, to be sure—the novelty of which -surprised and amused her in the midst of her anxieties. -</p> - -<p> -Stretched out in her chair, with her head thrown back, her arms behind -her neck and her mouth slightly open, she studied the ceiling; but out -of the corner of her half-closed eyes she watched Marcel as he talked. -She could have uttered in advance the words he was about to say; she -could have sworn what was going to happen. With an amused curiosity that -was a little sarcastic, for which she reproached herself, she let him go -on. -</p> - -<p> -(One must see and know, as he said just now, one must learn . . . -learn. . . .) -</p> - -<p> -She was learning to understand a friend. -</p> - -<p> -(Yes, I understand you. . . . An Annette fallen from the tree would be -good to pick up again. He is gently shaking the tree to make her tumble -off. He is speculating on Annette's confusion. And yet he is in love -with her. Yes, he is certainly in love with her. Not very bright, -brother man! His voice begins to have a coaxing sound. See how tender he -is growing. And now, look out! I wager he is going to bend over me.) -</p> - -<p> -Several seconds in advance she foresaw Marcel's blond beard leaning -towards her; she foresaw the caressing mouth that was about to alight on -hers. She wanted to spare him the humiliation. And just at the exact -moment she rose, and, with her outstretched hands, gently pushed -Marcel's shoulders away. -</p> - -<p> -"Good-bye, my friend," she said. -</p> - -<p> -Marcel looked into those penetrating eyes that were scrutinizing him -with a little malice in their depths. He smiled. He had been mistaken. -But it had been a good battle. He was perfectly aware that, with all the -calmness in the world, he had been given his dismissal. And yet, of this -he was sure, Annette's feeling towards him was not one of indifference. -Let whoever could understand it! The strange girl was escaping him. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="VII">VII</a></h4> - -<p> -Marcel did not reappear, and Annette took no steps to bring him back. -They were still friends, but each was angry with the other. Just because -Annette's feeling towards Marcel was not one of indifference, she was -touched by what she had seen in him. She was not offended by this; it -was the old story . . . Too old a story! . . . No, Annette had no -grievance against Marcel. Only, only she could not forget what had -happened! That is the way it is with forgivenesses granted by the mind -which the heart does not ratify. Secretly bitter, she was forced to -recognize, even more through Marcel's too free attempt than through the -harsh welcome she had encountered in Lucile's drawing-room, that her -situation was changed. She realized that she was no longer protected by -the conventional consideration that society accords to those of its -members who appear to submit to its laws. She would have to defend -herself alone. She was exposed. -</p> - -<p> -She closed her door to the world. She took care not to tell Sylvie of -the experiences she had had; Sylvie had predicted them and she would be -triumphant. She kept her secret and shut herself up with her child. She -had decided henceforth to live only for him. -</p> - -<p> -When little Marc came back from his airing in the evening, after -Marcel's call, she welcomed him with transports. He laughed when he saw -her and stretched out to her his four wriggling paws. She fell on him as -a starved wolf falls on its prey; she devoured him with kisses; she -pretended to eat every morsel of his body; she thrust his little feet -into her mouth; and as she undressed him she tickled him from head to -foot with her lips. "Yum-yum! I'm going to eat you up! That fool!" she -exclaimed, calling him to witness. "That fool who had the impudence to -tell me that you would not be enough for me! What insolence! You not -enough for me, my king, my little god! Tell me that you are my little -god! And what am I then? The little god's mother! The world belongs to -us! All the things we are going to do together! See everything, have -everything, try everything, taste everything, create everything!" -</p> - -<p> -And indeed they did create everything. To discover and to create, are -they not the same thing? To invent is to find. One finds what one -invents, one discovers what one creates, what one dreams of, what one -draws up from the fish-pond of one's musings. For the two of them, -mother and child, it was the hour of great discoveries. The first words -of the little boy, the game of exploration, when one measures the world -with one's arms and legs. Every morning Annette, with her child, set out -for conquest. She enjoyed it as much as he, perhaps more. It seemed to -her that she was reliving her own childhood, but with complete -consciousness and complete joy. He, the gay little soul, was full of joy -too. He was a beautiful child, healthy, chubby all over, a little pink -pig just ready for the spit. ("What else could you expect?" as Sylvie -said.) In his plump, elastic body there was too much compressed force; -he was like a rubber ball that insists upon bouncing. Every new contact -with life threw him into a clamorous delight. The enormous power of -dreaming that belongs to every baby amplified his discoveries and -prolonged the vibrations of happiness into veritable chimes of bells. -Annette was never behind him; it was as if they were having a contest as -to who should be the happiest and make the most noise. Sylvie said that -Annette was crazy, but she would have behaved the same way herself. And -after this tumult they would both have hours of absolute, delicious, -exhausted silence. The little one, tired out after so much movement, -slept obliviously. Annette was dropping with fatigue, but for a long -time she would refuse to go to sleep in order to enjoy the other's -slumber; and the fire of her love, driven back into her heart, hidden -like the light of a candle behind one's hand so as not to awaken the -little sleeper, burned with a long silent flame that rose upward to -heaven. She prayed . . . Mary beside the manger . . . She prayed to the -child. -</p> - -<p> -These months were still beautiful and shining. But they were not as pure -as those of the previous year. Less limpid. They were full of an -exalted, excessive joy that was a little exaggerated. -</p> - -<p> -A vigorous, healthy nature like Annette's must create, perpetually -create, create with its whole being, body and spirit. Create, or else -brood over the creation that is to be. It is a necessity, and happiness -comes only through satisfying it. Every creative period has its own -limited field, and its rising force follows a trajectory that descends -again sharply. Annette had passed the summit of the curve. Nevertheless, -the transport of creation persists in the mother for a very long time -after childbirth. Suckling prolongs the transfusion of the blood, and -invisible bonds keep the two bodies in communication. The creative -abundance of the spirit of the infant compensates for the impoverishment -of the spirit of the mother. The river that is running out tries to -replenish itself from the stream that is flowing over. It becomes a -torrent so as to merge with the little torrent. But strive as it may, -the little one outruns it. The child was already withdrawing into the -distance. Annette had difficulty in following him. -</p> - -<p> -Before he was able to frame a complete sentence he already had his -little hidden thoughts, cupboards of which he kept the keys. Heaven knew -what he concealed there: his reflexions on people, his scraps of -reasoning, odds and ends of images, sensations, play-words the sound of -which amused him, though he did not know what they meant, a singing -monologue that had no sequence, no end, no beginning. He was perfectly -well aware, perhaps not of what he was hiding, but that he was hiding -something. For the more one tried to find out what he was thinking, the -more mischievously he refused to let one know. He even amused himself -sometimes putting one off the track; with his little tongue, which was -as clumsy as his hands, as it stumbled about among the syllables, he was -already trying to lie, to mystify people. It was a pleasure to prove his -own importance to others and to himself by making fun of those who tried -to penetrate into his private domain. This scrap of a being, scarcely born, -had the fundamental instinct of the <i>mine</i> that is not yours—of -"You shan't have any of my peanuts." His whole wealth lay in fragments -of thoughts: he built walls to hide them from his mother's eyes. And -she, with that lack of foresight which is common to all mothers, was -proud that he knew so well how to say the No with which he so early -manifested his personality. She haughtily proclaimed, "He has a will of -iron." -</p> - -<p> -She thought she had forged this iron herself. But against whom? -</p> - -<p> -Against herself, to begin with; for, in the eyes of this little ego, she -was the not-I, the external world, a habitable external world, of -course, warm, soft and milky, that one could exploit, that one wanted to -dominate. External to the I . . . I am not it. I possess it. But it does -not possess me! -</p> - -<p> -No, she did not possess him! She began to feel it; this Lilliputian -intended to belong to no one but himself. He needed her, but she needed -him: the child's instinct told him so. In all probability, this -instinct, guarded by his egocentricity, told him that she needed him -much more and that it was therefore quite fair for him to abuse it. And, -heaven knows, this was true: she did need him much more. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, fair or not, abuse me, little monster! Just the same, it's no -use, you can't get along without me for a long time yet. I hold you. -There, I plunge you into your bath. Protest, young carp! . . . He looks -insulted; his mouth is open, as if this little personage were choking -with indignation at being treated like a bundle. . . . And I turn you -and turn you again! Heavens, what music! You are going to be a singer, -my son. Well, cry out your do-re-me. Bravo! You do the singing, but it's -I who make you dance. . . . Isn't it a shame for me to abuse your -weakness in this way? Oh, how mean this mother is! Poor midget! Well, -you'll avenge yourself on her when you are grown up. Meanwhile, protest! -In spite of your dignity, look, I'm going to kiss you on your little -behind." -</p> - -<p> -He kicked. She laughed. But it was in vain she held him; she held only -the shell. The animal within escaped into his burrow. Every day he -became more difficult to grasp. It was a loving chase, a passionate -struggle. But it was a struggle, a chase. One had to keep one's wind. -</p> - -<p> -The thousand little regular attentions that a baby demands fill the -days. Simple, monotonous as they are, they do not allow one to think of -anything else. Aside from <i>him</i>, always <i>him</i>, one's mind is in -shivers. The swiftest thought is interrupted ten times over. The child -invades everything; this little mass of flesh blocks one's horizon. Annette -did not complain. She did not even have time to regret it. She lived in a -plenitude of busy fatigue that was a blessing to her at first, but that -gradually became an obscure weariness. One's strength is used up, one's -soul wanders aimlessly: it does not stay where one has left it. It -follows its way like a sleep-walker, and when it awakens it does not -know where it is. Annette woke up one day conscious of a load of fatigue -that had been accumulating for months, and an indefinable shadow mingled -with the joy that dwelt in her. -</p> - -<p> -She was unwilling to attribute this to anything but physical exhaustion; -and to prove to herself that her happiness was in no way altered she -manifested it in more clamorous effusions than were necessary. -Especially before others, as if she were afraid that they would discover -in her what she did not wish to be seen. This exaggerated gaiety was -followed later, when she was alone, by depression. Sadness? No. An -obscure uneasiness, a vague restlessness, the feeling, which she -repressed, of a partial dissatisfaction. Not that she expected anything -from outside (she could still get along without that), but she suffered -from the unemployment of a part of her nature. Certain forces of the -mind had been at a standstill for a long time; the economy of her being -had undergone a disturbance. Annette, deprived of society, driven back -upon herself alone and feeling the sting of a nostalgia that she tried -to stifle, tried to find a resource in the company of books. But the -volumes remained open at the same page; the brain had become -unaccustomed to the effort of following the unfolding chain of the -words; the continual breaks which the constant preoccupation with the -child made in her thought dislocated her attention and shook it, -somnolent and enervated as it was, as a moored ship dances on the -current without the power either to advance or to remain still. Instead -of reacting, Annette remained shut up in herself, musing drowsily over -the open book; or she tried to divert herself in a flood of passionate -nonsense with the child. Sylvie, who saw that she could not find -expression for her multiple energy with the little one, said to her, -"You should go out more, take exercise, walk as you used to do." -</p> - -<p> -For the sake of peace, Annette said she would go out, but she did not -budge. She had a reason which she kept to herself: she was afraid of -meeting her old friends and exposing herself to some slight, some coldly -distant greeting. A superficial reason which she gave herself. In former -times she would have ignored these petty offences, but now she had a -neurasthenic tendency to avoid all contacts. Then why not leave Paris -and live in the country, as Sylvie advised? She did not say she would -not, but she did nothing; it involved making a decision, and she was not -willing to stir from her torpor. -</p> - -<p> -So she allowed her motionless days to float along, without a wave, like -a becalmed sea that is preparing to ebb. An interlude, an apparent -arrest in the eternal rhythm of respiration: the breath is suspended. -Joy is tiptoeing away. Trouble is approaching on muffled feet. The -trouble has not yet come. But a <i>nescio quid</i> warns one: "Do not -move!" It is waiting outside the door. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="VIII">VIII</a></h4> - -<p> -It entered. But it was not what she had expected. It is useless to -attempt to foresee happiness or trouble. When they arrive they are never -what we have looked for. -</p> - -<p> -One night when, suspended between sky and sea, on the borders of -happiness and melancholy, Annette was skirting the cape of sleep, -without knowing whether she was on this side of it or that, she became -aware of a danger. Unaware whence it was coming or what it was, she -collected her strength to fly to the help of the child who was sleeping -near her. For already her consciousness, which never slept without one -ear open, had realized that he was threatened. She forced herself to -awaken and listened anxiously. She was not mistaken. Even when she was -sound asleep the slightest alteration in the breathing of the dear -little creature reached her. The respiration of the child was hurried; -by a mysterious osmosis, Annette felt the oppression in her own chest. -She turned on the light and leaned over the cradle. The little one was -not awake; he was sleeping uneasily; his face was not red, which seemed -to the mother a reassuring symptom; she touched his body, found the skin -dry, the extremities cold; she covered him more warmly. This seemed to -quiet him. She watched him for a few minutes, then turned out the light, -trying to persuade herself that the alarm would not be repeated. But -after a brief respite the hoarse breathing began again. Annette deceived -herself as long as she possibly could. "No, he is not breathing harder -or more quickly. It's only that I am agitated." -</p> - -<p> -As if her will could impose itself upon the child, she forced herself to -remain motionless. But it was no longer possible to doubt. The -oppression was increasing, the breath came more quickly. And with a fit -of coughing the child woke up and began to cry. Annette leaped out of -bed. She took the child in her arms. He was burning, his face was pale, -his lips were blue. Annette was distracted. She called Aunt Victorine, -who only added her own agitation to the scene. That very day the -telephone had been disconnected for repairs, and there was no way of -communicating with the doctor. There was no druggist in the -neighborhood. The Boulogne house was isolated; the maid was unwilling to -run through the deserted streets at this hour of the night. They would -have to wait for morning. And the sickness was growing worse. It was -enough to make one lose one's head. Annette very nearly did so; but -knowing that she must not she did not. Her aunt, whimpering, fluttered -like a fly about the globe of a lamp. Annette said to her harshly, "It -does no good to groan. Help me! Or, if you can't do anything, go to -sleep and leave me alone. I will save him by myself." -</p> - -<p> -Her aunt, petrified by this, recovered her composure; her long -experience as a watcher at sickbeds dispelled Annette's most terrible -apprehension, that of diphtheria. Annette retained an unspoken doubt; so -did her aunt. One may always be mistaken. And even if it was not -diphtheria, there were so many other mortal disorders. Not to know what -it was added still more to their fright. But whether or not Annette's -heart was frozen with terror, her movements were calm and just what they -should have been. Without knowing it, moved by the maternal instinct -alone, she did exactly the right thing for the child. (So the doctor -told her the next day.) She did not leave him lying on his back for -long, she changed his position, she struggled against his fits of -suffocation. What neither experience nor science could have taught her -the love within her dictated, for she suffered what he suffered. She -suffered more. She regarded herself as responsible for it. -</p> - -<p> -Responsible! The tension of an ordeal, especially of an illness that -strikes a beloved being, often creates a superstitious state of mind in -which one needs to accuse oneself for the suffering of the innocent one. -Annette not only reproached herself for not having watched over the -child, for having been imprudent with him, but she discovered that she -had criminal thoughts in the back of her mind: a passing weariness of -the child, the shadow of an unconfessed regret that her life should have -been swamped in his. Was it quite certain that she had really felt and -repressed this regret, this weariness? No doubt, since they emerged at -this moment. But who could say whether she had not invented them through -this need she felt, when she was powerless to act in a practical way, to -act in thought, even if it meant turning her desperate energies against -herself? -</p> - -<p> -She turned them also against the great Enemy, against the unknown God. -As she saw the little swollen face, as she breathed her breath into him, -softly raising him in her hands with careful movements, she passionately -asked his pardon for having brought him into the world, stolen him away -from peace, thrown him into this life a prey to suffering, to mischance, -to the evil hazards of heaven knew what blind master! And with her flesh -creeping, like an animal at the entrance of his burrow, she growled, she -sniffed the approach of the great murderous deities; she prepared to -fight with them for her child, she bared her teeth. Like every mother -whose child is threatened, she was the eternal Niobe who, in order to -turn the mortal shaft against herself, hurls her furious defiance at the -Murderer. -</p> - -<p> -But no one in Annette's household divined this silent battle. -</p> - -<p> -In the morning the doctor came; he complimented her on her presence of mind -and the first steps she had taken—so different from what sometimes -happens when an anxious affection spoils everything by its awkwardness. -But she only grasped from his words what he said about the epidemics of -grippe and measles that were raging in Paris and the possibility that -her child had caught the germs of bronchial pneumonia. In refusing to -leave Paris, as she had promised to do, she had thus been guilty towards -the child. She judged herself pitilessly. This sentence she passed on -herself had at least the advantage of limiting the field of her -responsibility, for it dispelled any other remorse. -</p> - -<p> -At the first news, Sylvie had arrived hastily, and the little patient -had plenty of attention. But Annette, refusing to leave her place, took -hardly any rest and remained in the breach during the days, the nights, -the days. The perspiration on the little body and its burning -suffocation melted her own being. The illness kneaded them into one -mass. The child seemed to be aware of this, for in the moments when the -fear of an attack of coughing contracted his sides his eyes rested, -heavy with reproaches and an appeal for help, on the eyes of the mother. -He seemed to be saying, "It's going to hurt me again! There it is coming -back! Save me!" -</p> - -<p> -And, pressing him to her, she would reply, "Yes, I shall save you! Don't -be afraid, it's not going to get you!" -</p> - -<p> -The attack came, and the child strangled. But he was not alone. She -stiffened with him in order to break the noose. He felt that she was -struggling, that she, the great protectress, would not abandon him; and -the reassuring sound of her gentle voice and the pressure of her fingers -gave him confidence, said to him, "I am here." -</p> - -<p> -As he cried and struck the air with his little arms, he knew she would -fight it. -</p> - -<p> -And she did fight it, the nameless thing. The illness yielded. The noose -relaxed. And the little birdlike body of the child, still palpitating, -abandoned itself to the hands that had saved it. How good it was to -breathe, the two of them, after that plunge into the depths! The wave of -air that streamed through the mouth of the child bathed the throat of -the mother and swelled her breasts with an icy pleasure. -</p> - -<p> -These respites were of short duration. The struggle continued, -alternating with periods of exhaustion. His condition was improving when -the child had a sudden relapse from some unknown cause. His faithful -watchers naturally tormented themselves all the more, accusing -themselves of some moment of forgetfulness that had threatened his -recovery. Annette said to herself, "If he dies, I shall kill myself." -</p> - -<p> -For many nights she had been used to going without sleep; she kept it up -as long as the child needed her aid, but during the hours when he slept -and her own mind, reassured, might have made the most of this and -relaxed, her spirit was more uneasy than ever. It vibrated like a -telegraph-wire in the wind. Impossible to close her eyes. It was -dangerous for her to lie there facing her distracted brain. Annette -would turn on the light again and try to fix her mind upon some definite -line of thought in order to escape from this vertigo. But it was only to -turn over and over all sorts of superstitious, childish, extravagant -ideas—or so they appeared to a mind that was accustomed to rational -methods. She told herself that if calamity hung over her it was because -she had been too completely happy, and it seemed to her that if her son -was to recover she must suffer in some other direction. An obscure, -powerful belief in some painful compensation, mounting up from the -depths of time. Primitive peoples, in order to placate the ferocious -bargaining god, the god who never gives something for nothing and -demands cash payments, used to sacrifice their first-born: they -purchased with this ransom the safety of the rest of their fortunes. And -for her first-born Annette would gladly have given her life and all her -wealth. -</p> - -<p> -"Take my all," she said, "but let him live!" -</p> - -<p> -Then at once she thought, "This is absurd. Nobody is listening to me." -</p> - -<p> -It was no use. The old atavistic instinct continued to scent, somewhere -about her, the presence of the jealous God. And, holding on, bargaining -bitterly, she said, "Let us make an agreement. I am willing to pay on -the spot. The child is mine. Take your choice of the rest!" -</p> - -<p> -As if to justify her superstition, events took Annette at her word. One -morning, when Aunt Victorine had gone to the lawyer's to get some money -that he should have sent them some time before, she came back in tears. -That very morning Annette had had the joy of being finally reassured -about her child's health. The doctor had just left: this time he had -announced that the child was definitely convalescent. Annette, in a -transport of happiness, but still trembling, hardly dared to believe in -her newly recovered happiness. At this moment she saw the door opening -and at the first glance perceived her aunt's broken look. Her heart -throbbed as she thought, "What new misfortune has befallen us?" -</p> - -<p> -The old lady could hardly speak. At last she said, "The office is -closed. M. Grenu has disappeared." -</p> - -<p> -Annette's whole fortune was in his charge. For a moment she did not -understand. Then—explain it if you can—her face cleared. She -was relieved. She thought, "Is that all?" -</p> - -<p> -So there it was, the saving calamity! The enemy had taken his portion. -</p> - -<p> -A moment afterward she shrugged her shoulders at her silliness. But in -spite of her irony she continued to say to it, "Was that enough? Are you -satisfied? Now that I have paid, I owe you nothing more." -</p> - -<p> -She smiled. Poor humanity, clutching at its morsel of happiness and -seeing it unceasingly, unceasingly escaping, tries to conclude a pact -with blind nature, which it creates in its own image. -</p> - -<p> -"In my image? This envious, rapacious, cruel nature. Is it posable that -I resemble it? Who knows? Who can say, 'I am not that'?" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="IX">IX</a></h4> - -<p> -Annette was ruined. She could not yet estimate the extent of her ruin. -But when the first moment of aberration had passed, when she coldly -examined the situation, she had to admit that she thoroughly deserved -it. -</p> - -<p> -She was quite capable of attending to her affairs. Like her father, she -had a good hard head; figures had no terrors for her. When one comes of -a line of peasants and shrewd, energetic tradesfolk, one must make an -actual effort to lose one's assurance in practical matters. But she had -been spared all thought about material things as long as her father was -alive; and since then she had passed through a long crisis in which the -inner travail of her emotional life had held her captive. In this rather -abnormal state, maintained by the idleness made possible by her fortune, -she had felt a rather unhealthy disgust at paying any attention to her -property. It should be said boldly that the idealism of the inner life -which despises money as parasitical forgets that it has the right to do -so only when it gives up money. The idealism that grows out of a soil of -wealth and professes to have no interest in it is the worst form of -parasitism. -</p> - -<p> -To escape from the boredom of managing her fortune, she had turned the -whole administration of it over to the excellent M. Grenu, her lawyer. -An old family friend, a respected man whose honor and professional -standing were well known, M. Grenu had for thirty years overseen all the -Rivières' affairs as they passed through his office. It was true that -Raoul had not allowed any one to manage them without consulting him. -However much confidence he may have placed in his lawyer, he never -allowed him to make out a deed without verifying every period and comma -himself. But after taking all precautions, he did have confidence in -him, and when a man of his shrewdness has confidence in another the -other must deserve it. M. Grenu did deserve it. As much as anybody in -the world (when the precautions were taken) . . . -</p> - -<p> -The rôle of lay confessor, which the lawyer is called upon to play in a -family, had placed M. Grenu in possession of many of the Rivières' -household secrets. He had been unaware of very few of Raoul's escapades -or Mme. Rivière's sorrows. To the former he had lent a sympathetic ear, -to the latter an ear equally complacent. As an advisor of the wife he -appreciated her virtues; as the companion of Raoul, he appreciated the -latter's vices (they were virtues too, Gallic virtues); and it was said -that he was not above joining in some of Raoul's select parties. M. -Grenu was a little grizzled man in his sixties, delicate in appearance, -with a fresh complexion, excessively correct, malicious and -smooth-tongued, a good fellow, an amusing actor; he liked to tell -stories and would begin in a low, faint voice so that people would take -pains to listen to him, a voice so soft that it seemed to be dying; -then, when he had won from the audience a pitying silence, he would -gradually spread out into a sonorous volume of sound that a big clarinet -might have envied, and he would not abandon the stop till the final note -when he had finished his song. He was a lawyer of the old school, but a -weak man, attracted by the new ways, a good paterfamilias, an -old-fashioned bourgeois, proud of being able to count a number of -actresses, high livers and light women among his clientele, and it was -his hobby to speak of himself as old and even to act so, exaggeratedly; -but he was very much afraid of being taken at his word and in secret -applied himself ardently to showing that he was livelier than all these -young folks and could leave them far behind. -</p> - -<p> -He had known Annette since her childhood, and he had taken her affairs -very sincerely to heart. It seemed to him natural that she should -confide in him after the death of her parents. With professional -correctness, at first, he had scrupulously kept her posted; he was -unwilling to do anything without her consent—which only bored -Annette. Then he induced her to give him a special power of attorney for -this or that transaction of which Annette heard (scarcely heard) a very -vague account. And finally it was taken for granted that, since Annette -made frequent trips away from Paris, often without leaving her address, -M. Grenu would look out for her interests as best he could without -consulting her. Thus everything went well: the lawyer took charge of -everything, collected Annette's income and provided her with money as -she needed it. At last, in order to regularize the situation, he caused -her to give him a general power of attorney. . . . Water flowed under -the bridges. . . . It was more than a year since Annette had seen M. -Grenu, who, punctually, at the beginning of each quarter, turned over to -her the amount that was due. Living alone, away from Parisian society, -no longer reading the newspapers, she did not hear of events until long -after they had happened. Old M. Grenu had tried to be too clever. -Without any personal spirit of greed, he had allowed himself to be -caught by his fondness for speculation; to increase the funds of his -clients, he involved them in risky enterprises in which they were -capsized. Then in his attempts to make up their losses he ruined them. -Without warning Annette, he had not only disposed of all her ready money -and the personal property of which he had charge, but, by certain -subterfuges that were permitted by the elastic form of the power of -attorney, he had mortgaged the Boulogne house and the house in Burgundy. -When all was lost he fled before the ridicule which he knew would follow -his downfall and which would perhaps have been more intolerable to him -than dishonor. -</p> - -<p> -To crown the misfortune, Annette, entirely absorbed in the child's -illness, had not opened her correspondence for several weeks. She had -not replied to the letters of the mortgage-holders or the court summons -that followed. It was during the days of the child's relapse. Annette -had lost her head. Not realizing that they were addressed to her and not -to her agent, she sent the papers off without reading them to the -lawyer, who did not read them either—for a good reason. He was on the -run. When at last the recovery of her child left her mind free enough to -examine the situation, the judicial procedure had advanced so far that, -in Annette's failure to satisfy the demands of the creditors, the latter -had won the right to have the mortgaged property put up for sale. -Annette, awakened from her torpor, had to face this stunning blow; with -the energy that was restored in an instant and the practical -intelligence, inherited from her father, that made up for her -inexperience, she fought with a vigor and a clearness of mind which the -judge admired even while he decided against her: for her good excuses -did not alter the fact that before the law her case was bad. Annette -herself saw at once that she had lost in advance, but her fighting -instinct, which coolly admitted her defeat, unjust as it was, could not -admit it without resistance. Besides, she was concerned now for her -child's property. She defended it, step by step, with the tenacity of a -rude, shrewd peasant who, bracing her legs at the gate of her field, -bars the road to intruders, trying to gain time even though she knows -they are coming in. But what could she do? In her inability to pay the -sum that was demanded, and not wishing to ask aid from her relatives or -from the old friends who would probably have refused it in some -humiliating way, she could not stop the sale. Her ingenious, stubborn -energy only succeeded in obtaining the suspension, for a limited time, -of the proceedings of expropriation, without any hope of preventing -their execution after a brief delay. -</p> - -<p> -Annette would have had some excuse if she had been overwhelmed by this -catastrophe. Sylvie, who had not been personally injured by it, now -burst into lamentations, now angrily talked of nothing but law-suits, -law-suits, law-suits. Annette, on the contrary, seemed to have recovered -her equilibrium through this very event. The ordeal had cleared the air. -The soft, sentimental atmosphere that for two or three years had been -cloying her heart was dissipated. When Annette was certain that the -situation could not be changed, she accepted it. Without useless -recriminations. Unlike Sylvie, who heaped the harshest maledictions on -the lawyer's head, she found no comfort in blaming M. Grenu. The old man -was in the water. So was she. But she had her youthful arms, and she -could swim. Perhaps this thought was not even entirely unpleasant to -her. Strange as it may seem, along with the distress of her ruin she had -at bottom an inquisitive desire for adventure and even a secret pleasure -in putting her unused energies to the test. Raoul would have understood -her, Raoul who, at the height of his success, had been seized at moments -with a fancy for destroying his life's work just to have the pleasure of -rebuilding it. -</p> - -<p> -She prepared now to leave the Boulogne house. The property in Burgundy -had already been sold, hastily, on absurd terms. It was certain that the -total sale would scarcely cover the debt and the costs, and that, if -there remained an available surplus, it would not be enough for the -maintenance of Annette and her family; she would have to look for new -resources. For the moment, the main thing was to reduce expenses and -settle in some very modest establishment. Annette set out to look for an -apartment. Sylvie found one for her on the fourth floor of her own house. -(She lived on the <i>entresol</i>.) The rooms were small and opened on -the court, but they were clean and quiet. It was impossible to bring all -the furniture from the Boulogne house here. Annette wanted to keep only -what was absolutely necessary. But Aunt Victorine, weeping, begged her -to preserve everything. Annette remonstrated that it was not reasonable, -in their present situation, to assume the expense of a store-room. They -must make a choice, and the old lady begged for each object. Annette -firmly chose; aside from the furniture that was to follow them to the -new apartment, she kept a few pieces that were particularly dear to her -aunt, and the rest were sold. -</p> - -<p> -Sylvie was struck by Annette's insensibility. But it was impossible to -suppose that the courageous girl did not feel a little sad. She loved -this house which she had to leave. . . . How many memories she had! How -many dreams! But she repressed them. She well knew that she could not -entertain them with impunity. They were too much, they would have taken -everything; she needed all her strength at this moment. -</p> - -<p> -Just once, taken by surprise, she gave way before their assault. It was -one afternoon, shortly before the movers were to come. Her aunt was at -church and Marc was at Sylvie's. Annette, alone in the Boulogne house, -where everything spoke of their approaching departure, was kneeling on a -half-rolled rug, folding up a tapestry that had been taken down. -Occupied with her task, while her active hands came and went, her head -was busy calculating about the new arrangements. But she still had room -for dreams; for her eye, floating for an instant far from the present -vision, fastened in its mistiness upon a design in the tapestry which -her hands were rolling up: it recognized this design. A motif of pale -flowers, almost worn away; butterflies' wings, detached petals? It -mattered little; but Annette's eyes as a child had fallen there, and on -this canvas they had embroidered the tapestry of the days that had fled. -And this tapestry had suddenly emerged from the night. Annette's hands -ceased to wander; her mind, for one moment more, persisted in repeating -the figures of which it had lost the thread, then was still. And -Annette, letting herself slip down upon the floor, with her forehead on -the roll of the rug and her face in her hands, lay there with her knees -drawn up, abandoned herself to the wind and the flood, set sail. . . . -She did not voyage towards any particular country. . . . Such a mass of -memories—lived? dreamed?—how distinguish between them? Dizzy -symphony of a moment of silence! It contained much more than the substance -of a life. In active thought, the consciousness, when it believes it takes -possession of our inner world, only seizes the crest of the wave at the -moment when the sun-ray gilds it. Reverie alone perceives the moving -abyss and its torrential rhythm, those innumerable drops, scudding along -on the wind of the ages, seeds of thought of the beings from whom we -spring and who will spring from us, that formidable chorus of hopes and -regrets whose trembling hands stretch out towards the past or the -future. Indefinable harmony that forms the tissue of an illuminated -second, and that sometimes a shock is enough to awaken. A bouquet of -pale flowers had just evoked it in Annette. -</p> - -<p> -When she pulled herself together, after a long silence, she rose -hastily, and with hands that were suddenly awkward, hasty, trembling, -she finished folding up the tapestry without looking at it. She did not -quite finish it, she threw it into a box, incompletely rolled, and fled -from the room. . . . No, she did not want to stay with these thoughts! -It was better to escape from them. Later she would have time enough to -regret the past, when she would herself belong to the past . . . later, -in the twilight of her life. For the moment, she was too full of the -future, she must see it through. Her dreams lay ahead of her. "I don't -want to know what is behind me; I must not turn around." -</p> - -<p> -She walked down the street, hastening her steps, tense, looking neither -to right nor left . . . the years, the years, the life that was -coming . . . that of her child, her own, the new life, the Annette of -to-morrow. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="X">X</a></h4> - -<p> -She had this vision in her eyes on the evening when she established -herself in Sylvie's house. Sylvie, as soon as her shop was closed, -hastened to climb up to her sister's apartment to distract her from the -regrets she supposed the latter must be feeling. She found her walking -back and forth in her narrow room, not at all tired after the exhausting -day, trying to make her too diminutive cupboards hold her clothes and -her linen. Unsuccessful in this, perched on a stool, with her arms full -of sheets, looking at the filled shelves, she was meditating another -plan, whistling like a boy a Wagnerian fanfare that she absent-mindedly -travestied, giving it a burlesque turn. Sylvie looked at her and said, -"Annette, I admire you." (She did not mean quite as much as this.) -</p> - -<p> -"Why?" asked Annette. -</p> - -<p> -"If I were in your place, how I should rage!" -</p> - -<p> -Annette began to laugh. Absorbed in her work, she made a sign to her -sister to be silent. -</p> - -<p> -"I think I've got it," she said. -</p> - -<p> -She buried her head and her arms in the cupboard, arranging, -disarranging, rummaging. -</p> - -<p> -"I said so," she remarked, "and I have." -</p> - -<p> -(She was addressing a cupboard that was full, arranged, conquered.) -</p> - -<p> -She descended, victorious, from the stool. -</p> - -<p> -"Rage, Sylvie?" she said. (She was holding her by the chin.) "When you -were a child you played at building houses with dominoes. When the house -fell, did you get angry?" -</p> - -<p> -"I banged the dominoes on the floor," said Sylvie. -</p> - -<p> -"And I said, Biff! I'll build another." -</p> - -<p> -"You'll have to admit that you shook the table!" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, I wouldn't swear I didn't," said Annette. -</p> - -<p> -Sylvie called her an anarchist. -</p> - -<p> -"What!" said Annette. "Isn't that just what you are?" -</p> - -<p> -Sylvie was not. She could laugh at order and authority when she wanted -to do so, but she felt the need of order and authority. Even if it was -only to apply them to other people. For her, as for others, there was no -pleasure in revolting unless it was against some authority. And as for -order, Sylvie was well supplied with it. She did not cavil at the -established order except in so far as it was not her own. She did not -reproach it for being established. An order should be established. Since -she too was established, as an employer, directing her own business, she -was all for a stable order. Annette made this discovery with surprise. -Nor was this the only discovery she made. You do not know another human -being unless you see him in that everyday activity which brings his -energies to a head and reveals his natural movements and gestures. -Annette had never seen Sylvie except during her idle times, her times of -relaxation. Who can judge of a cat stretched out on a soft cushion? You -must see it on the warpath with its back arched and the green fire in -its eyes. -</p> - -<p> -Annette was now seeing Sylvie in her own field, the portion of earth she -had cleared for herself in the Parisian jungle. The little business -woman had taken her trade seriously, and she was second to no one in the -art of managing her affairs. Annette could observe her at leisure and -close by; for, during the first weeks that followed her moving, she took -her meals with Sylvie; it had been agreed that they should keep house -together until the settling was entirely finished. Annette, to keep her -own end up, tried to make herself useful, sharing in some of the tasks -of the workshop. Thus she saw Sylvie at all hours of the day, now with -the customers, now with the workers, now alone for a private talk, and -she observed in her sister traits she had not known, or which had become -accentuated in the last two or three years. -</p> - -<p> -The coaxing Sylvie, under her charming smile, no longer concealed from -the penetrating eyes of Annette a rather cold nature which, amid all its -entanglements, knew where it was going. She had a small personnel of -working-girls whom she managed with superlative skill. With her keen -observation and her winning ways, she had chosen and drawn to herself -hearts that had no other attachments. Such, for instance, was her chief -assistant, Olympe, who was much older than she, more expert in the -craft, an excellent worker, but entirely without ideas, and unable to -take care of herself. She had come from the country and was lost in -Paris, victimized and laughed at by men, women, her employers and her -fellow-workers. She was intelligent enough to see this, but she did not -have the strength to resist it, and she had been looking for some one -who, without taking advantage of her, would make use of her work and -free her from the responsibility of managing herself. It had needed no -effort on Sylvie's part to bring her into line. Sylvie was merely -obliged to take care that there should be a good understanding among the -rival devotions that she had aroused in her personnel, making skilful -use of their antagonisms in order to stimulate their zeal and, like a -wise government, uniting competitors in the patriotism of the common -work. The pride of the little establishment and the desire to -distinguish themselves in the eyes of the young mistress delivered them -over to her cunning domination, which often made them work till they -were exhausted. She set the example, and no one complained. Her -affectionate taunts, the droll mockery at which they would burst out -laughing, would reinvigorate the weary team and make them hold out to -the end. Proud of their employer, they loved her jealously; while she, -who stimulated their enthusiasm, remained indifferent to them herself. -In the evening, after they had left, she talked about them to her sister -in a tone of cold detachment that shocked Annette. For the rest, she was -ready to do them a good turn in case of need, and she never left them in -the lurch if she found them ill or in difficulties. But whether they -were ill or not, if she did not see them she forgot them. She had no -time to think of the absent. She had no time to love very long. A -perpetual activity occupied all her moments: the care of her person, -housekeeping, meals, business, trying on dresses, gossip, love affairs, -amusements. And everything—even to the (never very long) periods of -silence, when, between the bustle of the day and her sleep at night, she -found herself alone face to face with herself—everything about her -was precise. Not a cranny for dreams. When she observed herself, it was -with the clear and curious eye that watches others and looks upon oneself -as a passer-by. A minimum of inner life: everything projected into acts and -words. The need that Annette felt for moral confession found no -consideration here. Annette was embarrassed in this perpetual midday. No -shadow. Or, if it existed—and it exists in every soul—the door -was closed tight upon it. Sylvie was not interested in what might be behind -the door. Her only concern was to administer her little domain -punctiliously, enjoying everything, her work and her pleasures, but -everything at its own time so that nothing should be lost; consequently, -she was without passions or any great excesses, for this activity, this -perpetual going from one thing to another, not only did not lend itself -to anything of the kind, but even destroyed its possibility in advance. -No danger that her lovers would make her lose her head. -</p> - -<p> -The truth was that she did not love anything very much. She loved -whole-heartedly only one soul, Annette. And how strange this was! Why in -the world did she love this big girl who had nothing, or virtually -nothing, in common with her? -</p> - -<p> -Ah, that "virtually nothing" was a great deal; who knows but that it was -the most important thing of all?—the tie of blood. This does not -always count for much between people of the same family. But when it does -count, what a mysterious strength it has! It is a voice that whispers to -us, "That other person is a part of me. Moulded in another shape, the -substance is the same. I recognize myself in a different form and -possessed by an alien soul." -</p> - -<p> -And one wants to capture oneself in this usurper double attraction, a -triple attraction: the attraction of resemblance, the attraction of -opposition, of the war of conquest, which is not the least of the three. -</p> - -<p> -What forces there were binding Annette and Sylvie together! Pride, -independence, orderliness, will, the life of the senses! Of these two -spirits, the one turned inward, the other outward—the two hemispheres -of the soul. They were constituted of almost the same elements, but -each, for deep, obscure reasons that sprang from the essence of their -personality, repressed one half, wished only to see one half, that which -emerged or that which was submerged. The uniting of the two sisters in a -common life disturbed the habitual consciousness that each had of -herself. Their mutual affection was tinged with hostility. And the -warmer the affection was, the keener was the hidden hostility, for they -realized how hopelessly unlike they were. Annette was more expert in -reading her buried thoughts, and she was also more sincere: she was able -to judge them and repress them. The time had passed when she had wished -to absorb Sylvie in her imperious love. But Sylvie still had a secret -desire to dominate her elder sister, and she was not displeased that -circumstances had given her an opportunity to affirm her superiority. It -was a sort of revenge for the inequalities of their lot during the -girlhood of the two sisters. This unconfessed feeling, together with her -real affection, gave her a sense of satisfaction which she concealed as -she saw Annette working under her direction in the shop. She would have -liked to have her on her pay roll. She put her in charge of receiving -her customers and making charcoal designs for embroidered trimmings; she -tried to persuade her that she could look forward to some important -position and even to being her partner later on in the business. -</p> - -<p> -Annette, who saw what Sylvie was driving at, had no intention of tying -herself down. She let the offer drop, and when Sylvie pressed her she -replied that she was not fitted for this work. Upon this Sylvie asked -her ironically for what work she was fitted. This was a tender point -with her. When one has never had to work for a living and necessity -drives one to do so, it is painful not to know what work one is fitted -for, not even to know whether, in spite of one's education, one is -fitted for any work. But she had to face the question. Annette did not -want to remain dependent on Sylvie. Of course Sylvie would never have -shown that she felt this dependence: she enjoyed helping her sister. But -if she was happy in spending for Annette, she knew what she was -spending; her right hand was never unaware of what her left hand gave. -Annette was still less unaware of it. She could not endure the thought -that Sylvie, as she made up her accounts, mentally wrote her down as her -debtor. . . . The devil take all money! Should it be considered between -two hearts that love each other? Annette and Sylvie did not consider it -in their hearts. But it was a consideration in their life. People do not -live by love alone. They live by money too. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XI">XI</a></h4> - -<p> -This was a truth which Annette had ignored a little too much. She was to -lose no time in learning it. -</p> - -<p> -She started out in search of a position, saying nothing about it to -Sylvie. Her first idea was to go to see the principal of the school for -young girls where she had studied. As an intelligent student who was -rich and the daughter of an influential father, she had been a favorite -of Mme. Abraham, and she felt certain of her sympathy. This remarkable -woman—one of the first to organize the teaching of women in -France—had rare qualities of energy and judgment that were -complemented—or mitigated, according to the case—by a very -cold political sense which many men might have envied. She was -disinterested personally, but she was far from being so where her school -was concerned. She was a freethinker, and, although she did not parade -the fact, she was not without a certain contemptuous anti-clericalism -that could do her no harm with her clientele, the daughters of the -radical bourgeoisie and young Jewesses. But in place of the dogmas she -rejected she had established a civic morality which, although it lacked -basis and certitude, was no less strict and commanding. (It was even -more so, for the more arbitrary a rule is the more rigid it becomes.) -Annette, thanks to her position in society, was intimate with the -principal and had her confidence. It amused her to tease the latter -about her famous official morality, and Mme. Abraham, who was sceptical -by nature, found no difficulty in smiling at the whims of this saucy -young thing. She smiled at them, yes, indeed, when they talked together -behind her closed door. But as soon as the door was open and Mme. -Abraham was reinstated in her title and her official rank, she was as -firm as iron in her belief in the Tables of the laic Law, the product of -the highly reasonable morality of a few republican pedagogues. It was -enough to say that, if her naked conscience was indifferent to -conventional morality, her clothed conscience—her usual -conscience—severely blamed Annette's behavior. For she knew about -it; the adventure had gone the rounds of society. -</p> - -<p> -But she did not yet know of her ruin. And when Annette called, she took -care not to reveal her thoughts: her first business was to find out the -reasons for this call and whether the school might reap any advantage -from it. She therefore gave her a pleasant though rather reserved -greeting. But scarcely had she learned that Annette had come to ask a -favor than she remembered the scandal and her smile froze. One can -easily accept money from a person of whom one doesn't approve, but one -cannot decently give it to such a person. It was easy for Mme. Abraham -to find compelling reasons for averting a candidacy that was so -impolitic. There was no position in the school; and, when Annette asked -for a recommendation to other institutions, Mme. Abraham did not even -take the trouble to make vague promises. She was very diplomatic when -she was negotiating with anyone who was on top of the wheel of fortune, -but she instantly ceased to be so when the wheel had flung them down. A -serious mistake in diplomacy! For sometimes those who are down to-day are -on top to-morrow, and good diplomacy looks out for the future. Mme. -Abraham considered nothing but the present. At present Annette was -drowning; it was a pity, but Mme. Abraham was not in the habit of -fishing out those who were in the water. She did not disguise her -coldness, and, when Annette failed to abandon her tone of calm -self-possession and henceforth misplaced equality, Mme. Abraham, in -order to bring her back to a more exact sense of her distance, declared -that she could not conscientiously recommend her. Annette, who was -burning with indignation, was on the point of expressing it. A flash of -anger passed over her, but it was extinguished in contempt. She was -seized by one of those rather diabolical whims of her younger days, an -itching desire to mock. She rose, saying, "Well, think of me if you -establish a course in the new morality." -</p> - -<p> -Mme. Abraham looked at her, taken aback; the impertinence was all too -evident. She replied dryly, "The old one is good enough for us." -</p> - -<p> -"But it might not be a bad thing to enlarge it a little." -</p> - -<p> -"What would you like to add to it?" -</p> - -<p> -"Nothing very much," said Annette, calmly. "Freedom and humanity." -</p> - -<p> -Mme. Abraham, hurt, said: "The right to love, no doubt?" -</p> - -<p> -"No," said Annette, "the right to have a child." -</p> - -<p> -As she went out she shrugged her shoulders at her useless bravado. . . . -Stupid! . . . What was the use of making an enemy? . . . She laughed -just the same as she thought of the vexed expression of her antagonist. -A woman cannot resist the pleasure of slighting another. Bah! The -Abraham woman would remain her enemy only until Annette had reconquered -her position. And she would reconquer it! -</p> - -<p> -Annette visited other institutions, but there were no positions. There -were none for women. The Latin democracies are only made for men; they -sometimes put feminism on their programmes, but they distrust it; they -are in no hurry to furnish arms to what still remains, at the dawn of -the twentieth century, the enslaved rival, a rival that will not long so -remain, thanks to the tenacity of the Nordic woman. Pressure will have -to be brought by the public opinion of the rest of the world to oblige -them to offer a crabbed welcome to the woman who works and wishes to -exercise her rights. -</p> - -<p> -Annette might have been admitted, however, to two or three positions if -her susceptibility had not caused her to lose them. They would have been -ready to shut their eyes to her irregular situation if she herself had -been willing to give them some specious explanation—that she was a -widow or divorced by her own choice. But when she was questioned her -absurd pride drove her to tell the facts as they were. After two or -three rebuffs, she approached no more institutions, not even the -University, although in the latter she had left sympathetic friends -behind her and would have found minds large enough to help her without -censuring her. But she was afraid of being wounded. She was still -inexperienced in the country of the poor. The hands of her pride had not -had time to become callous. -</p> - -<p> -She looked about for a chance to give private lessons. She did not wish -to seek them among the friends of her own class; she preferred to -conceal her steps. She turned to those clandestine employment—those -exploitative—agencies that still exist in Paris. She was not skilful -enough to appear well from their point of view. She had too much -disdain. They resented her fastidiousness. Instead of accepting whatever -offered, like so many unhappy souls who are fortified with very few -recommendations, who will teach anything that is asked of them at famine -prices and work from dawn till dark, she presumed to pick and choose. -</p> - -<p> -At last, through the mediation of Sylvie's customers, she found a few -foreigners. She gave lessons in conversation to some Americans who -treated her kindly and occasionally invited her to drive in their -carriages, though they offered her an absurd remuneration, never even -thinking that they ought to have paid her more. They did not hesitate to -give a hundred francs for a pair of shoes, while for an hour of French -they would pay a franc. (It was not impossible in those days to find -people who would give lessons for fifty centimes!) Annette, who did not -have the right to be exacting as yet, refused to accept this shameful -treatment. But after having sought far and wide, she could find nothing -better. The well-to-do bourgeoisie who, under the eye of public opinion, -are willing to spend whatever is demanded for the education of their -children when the teaching is public, sordidly exploit instructors in -their own households. There no one sees you. You are dealing with people -who are too humble to resist: for one who refuses there are ten who beg -you to accept them! -</p> - -<p> -Isolated, without experience, Annette was in a poor position to protect -herself. But she had the practical instinct of the Rivières and she had -her pride, and they would not accept the humiliating wages to which -others yielded. She was not of the whining sort who complain and give -in. She did not complain and she did not give in. And in the face of all -expectation this attitude was successful. The human species is cowardly; -Annette had a calm, rather haughty way of saying no that cut short all -bargaining; people did not dare to treat her as they would have treated -others, and she obtained conditions that were rather more favorable. Not -greatly so. She had to go through many weary hours to earn what she -spent every day. Her pupils were scattered in remote quarters, and this -was before the time of the autobusses and the metro in Paris. When she -came home in the evening, her feet ached and her shoes were worn out. -But she was robust, and it gave her a sense of satisfaction to -experience the life of toil for one's daily bread. To earn her bread was -a new adventure for Annette. When she was successful in one of those -little duels of the will with her exploiters, she was as well pleased -with her day as a gambler who, in the pleasure of what he has won, -forgets the insignificance of the stake. She learned to see men better. -It was not always a pleasant sight. But everything is worth learning. -She came into contact with the obscure world of toil. But her contacts -were inadequate and without depth. If wealth isolates, poverty isolates -no less. Every one is caught fast in his difficulties and his effort, -and he sees in others not so much brothers in misery as rivals whose -fortune is made at the expense of his own. -</p> - -<p> -Annette divined this feeling in the women with whom she found herself -thrown, and she understood it; for she was a privileged being among -them. If she worked in order not to be a charge upon her sister, her -sister was none the less there; she was safe from the danger of -destitution. She did not know that feverish uncertainty about to-morrow. -She had her child to enjoy; no one was trying to take him away from her. -How compare her lot with that of this woman whose story she had -learned—a teacher who had been dismissed because she, like Annette, -had had the hardihood to be a mother. It was true that she had been -tolerated at first on condition that she kept her maternity secret. -Exiled in a post of disgrace, in the depths of the country, she had had -to separate from the child of her own flesh. But she could not keep -herself from running to him when he was ill. The secret was out, and the -virtuous countryside made ferocious sport of her. The authorities of the -university of course upheld the popular decree and threw into the street -the two rebels against the code. And it was with them that Annette was -disputing their meagre livelihood. She took care not to apply for the -position which the other woman was seeking. But she was chosen. Just -because she sought positions less eagerly, because she had less need of -them. People have little respect for those who are hungry. And then the -poor souls whom she supplanted treated her as an intruder who was -robbing them. They knew they were unjust; but it is comforting to be -unjust when you are a victim of injustice. Annette became familiar with -that greatest of all wars—the war of the workers, not against nature -or circumstances, nor against the rich for taking their bread away from -them—the war of the workers against the workers who are snatching the -bread from each other, the crumbs that have fallen from the table of the -rich or from that sordid Crœsus, the State. That is the misery of -miseries, most felt by women, and especially those of to-day. For they -are still incapable of organization. They remain in the state of -primitive warfare, the individual against the individual; instead of -pooling their difficulties, they multiply them. -</p> - -<p> -Annette hardened herself, and although her heart bled her eyes were -aflame with joy. She strode on, sustained in her ungrateful work by its -novelty, the energy she had to spend—and the thought of her child, -which illumined the whole day. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XII">XII</a></h4> - -<p> -Marc spent the day in Sylvie's workshop. Aunt Victorine had flickered -out shortly after they were settled. She had not been able to survive -the ruin of the old home, the loss of the old furniture, the habits of a -peaceful half-century. Since Annette was out of the house till evening, -Sylvie took charge of the child. He was the darling of the workshop, -petted by the customers and the workers, rummaging about on all fours, -sitting under a table, collecting hooks and eyes and scraps of chiffon, -winding skeins of silk, rolling balls, stuffing himself with sweets and -smothered with kisses. He was a little boy of three or four, with golden -auburn hair like Annette's, and he had been rather pale ever since his -illness. Life for him was a perpetual spectacle. Sylvie could remember -her own first experiences when, sitting under her mother's counter, she -had listened to the customers. But the great personages, from the tops -of their stilts, have too utterly different a field of vision to know -what catches the eyes of a child. And its rosy ears. . . . There was -quite enough to keep them busy in the workshop! Every tongue was -loosened, laughing, bold, brazen. Prudery was no weakness of Sylvie and -her flock. Plenty of laughing, plenty of gossip, makes the needle fly. -No one thought of the child. Was it possible that he understood? He did -not understand (in all probability), but he grasped things, he let -nothing escape him. The child collected everything, touched everything, -tasted everything. Woe to whatever lay in his way! Sprawling under a -chair, he put in his mouth whatever fell from above, scraps of biscuit, -buttons, fruit-stones; and he also put words there. Without knowing what -they meant. Exactly, in order to find out! And he munched away and sang. -</p> - -<p> -"Little pig!" -</p> - -<p> -An apprentice would snatch from his fingers a ribbon he was sucking, or -perhaps experimentally burying in his nose. But no one took from him the -words he had swallowed. He was doing nothing with them for the present; -there was nothing he could do with them. But they were not lost. -</p> - -<p> -Routed out from under the furniture and the petticoats, where he was -absorbed in curious studies of the fidgeting feet and the imprisoned -toes curled up in their shoes, dragged back to the conventions, to his -normal position in the world of grown-ups, he would remain motionless, -soberly seated on a low stool between Sylvie's legs. Or, since his aunt -rarely kept still, between some other pair of knees. He would lean his -cheek against the warm cloth and watch, with his nose in the air and his -head thrown back, those bending faces with their puckered eyes, their -quick, shining, moving pupils, those mouths, biting the thread; he saw -the saliva and the lower lips—they seemed to be the upper -ones—gnawed by the teeth, the undersides of the nostrils, covered -with little red streaks and trembling as the words came, and the fingers -that flew with their needles. Suddenly a hand would tickle his chin: -there was a thimble at the end of it that gave him a cold feeling in his -neck. Here, as ever, nothing was lost on him; these warm and cold -contacts, this downy glow, these lights that reddened and these shadows -that turned to amber the bits of living flesh, yes, and this feminine -odor. . . . He was certainly not aware of it himself, but that multiple -consciousness, that many-faceted consciousness which is spread about the -whole periphery of a child, registered everything that passed over its -little printer's-roller. . . . These women never suspected that their -images, complete from head to foot, were being imprinted on this little -sensitive plate. But he saw them only fragmentarily: pieces were -missing, as in a puzzle in which the parts are mixed up. From this -resulted his strange, fleeting preferences, as lively as they were -varied, which seemed capricious but were really due to his deep-seated -predisposition. A clever person might have said what it was in each of -these women that attracted him. He was like a regular household pet: it -was the gentleness of the hands rather than the whole person that he -liked. And it was the totality of these sweetnesses, the home, the -workshop. He was frankly an egoist. (And rightfully: the little builder -has to assemble his ego first of all.) A sincere egoist, even in his -blandishments. For he was blandishing: he wanted to please and he -enjoyed giving pleasure, but only to those whom he had chosen. -</p> - -<p> -From the very beginning his great favorite had been Sylvie. The instinct -of the domestic animal in him had at once perceived that she was the god -of the household, the master who dispensed food and kisses and was -responsible for the tone of the day, and whom it was a good thing to -propitiate. But it was better still to be propitiated by her. And the -child had observed that this privilege had been accorded to him. It -never occurred to him that it might not be deserved. Thus he received -without surprise but with satisfaction the agreeable and flattering -homage that was rendered to him by the sovereign of the workshop. Sylvie -spoiled him, adored him, went into ecstasies over his gestures, his -steps, his words, his intelligence, his beauty, his mouth, his eyes, his -nose; she held him up to the admiration of her customers and preened -herself on his account as if he had been her own chick. -</p> - -<p> -To tell the truth, she also called him, "Little blackguard! Silly little -fool!" And sometimes she tweaked his nose, slapped him, gave him a -spanking. But from her he did not take this as an offence; although he -protested loudly, he did not even find it too disagreeable. May not any -one be struck by the hand of the queen? From any one else, from one of -the girls in the workroom, heavens above, he would never have permitted -it! Even without her sceptre, Sylvie had a charm for him. In his -feminine puzzle, made up of this group and that, she had provided him -with the greatest number of parts; he loved to press against her dress, -with his head against her stomach, to listen to her voice (he could hear -her laughing all through her body), or clamber up her hips till he had -reached the summit; and then, with his two arms knotted about her neck, -he would rub his nose, his lips and his eyes against her soft cheek, -close to her ears, among the little blonde curls that had such a nice -smell. What the eye is for the mind of grown-ups, the sense of touch is -for that of children. It is the talisman that permits one to see over -the wall and weave within oneself the dream of things one believes one -sees, the illusion of life. The child spun his web. And without knowing -what these blonde curls were, or what this cheek was, this voice, this -laugh, this Sylvie or this "I," he thought, "This is mine." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XIII">XIII</a></h4> - -<p> -Annette would come home in the evening. She would be famished. All day -she had walked in a waterless desert, a world without love. All day she -had walked with her eyes turned towards the spring which, in the -evening, she would find again. She heard it rippling; in anticipation -she would dip her lips in it; a passer-by in the street might have taken -as intended for him the smile which this beautiful woman who was -hastening along addressed to the image of her child. As she approached -Sylvie's house, her steps quickened like those of a horse that scents -the oats; and when at last she entered, laughing with greedy love, no -matter how tired she was she went upstairs at a run. The door opened; -she dashed in and threw herself on the child; she caught him up in her -hands, squeezed him, devoured him furiously, his eye, his nose, under -his nose, wherever she happened to alight, whatever part she could -reach, and her mad joy expressed itself noisily. As for him, as he -played about or amused himself soberly, comfortably settled on the -padded sofa, drawing lines with a piece of chalk or mixing up threads of -various colors, he was none too pleased by this invasion. This great -rough woman who came in without any warning, seized him, pulled him -about, shouted in his ear, stifled him with kisses . . . he didn't like -it at all! To be disposed of without his permission made him indignant. -He wouldn't allow it. He was cross and he struggled; but this only made -her shake him, fondle him, laugh and cry all the more furiously. . . . -Everything about her displeased him: this lack of consideration, this -noise, this violence. . . . He quite understood that she ought to love -him, admire him and even kiss him. But she should have had better -manners! Where had she come from? Sylvie and her girls were more -ladylike. When they played with him, even when they laughed or -exclaimed, they didn't make such a racket and seize you and hug you in -this brutal way. He was astonished that Sylvie, who knew so well how to -give her subjects a dressing down, should never give this ill-bred -person a lesson in deportment, that she did not protect him from such -familiarities. On the contrary, Sylvia assumed with Annette a tone of -affectionate equality which she did not have for any one else, and she -said to Marc, "Come, be good! Kiss your mother!" -</p> - -<p> -His mother! Of course, he knew it. But that was no excuse. Yes, she too -was a domestic power. He was still too close to the warmth of the breast -not to have kept on his epicurean mouth the sugary taste of milk, not to -have kept in his birdlike body the golden shadow of the wing that -sheltered him. Even more recent were the nights of illness when the -invisible enemy had seized the throat of the fledgling and the head of -the great protectress had bent over him. Of course, of course! But now -he no longer needed this. If he preserved these memories and a hundred -others that were stored away in his granary, he had no use for them at -present. Later, perhaps, he would see. . . . Every moment now brought -him a new gift; he had enough to do to gather them all in. A child is -ungrateful by nature. <i>Mens momentanea</i>. Do you imagine he has time to -remember what was good yesterday? What is good for him is what is good -to-day. To-day Annette had made the great mistake of allowing herself to -be eclipsed by others who were more agreeable and even more serviceable -in Marc's eyes. Instead of going off, heaven knew where, and making her -unseemly appearances in the evening, why didn't she stay here like -Sylvia and the others, busy all day with Marc and paying court to him? -It was her loss. So he barely condescended to accept Annette's -effusions, responding to the rain of silly, loving questions with a -bored and distant Yes, No, Good Morning, Good Evening; and then, flying -from the downpour and wiping his cheek, he would return to his play or -to Sylvie's knees. -</p> - -<p> -Annette could not help seeing that Marc preferred Sylvie to herself. -Sylvie saw it even more clearly. They laughed about it together, and -both pretended not to attach a shadow of importance to it. But deep in -their hearts Sylvie was flattered and Annette was jealous. They took -good care not to confess this to each other. Like a good girl, Sylvie -forced the ungracious child to kiss Annette. Annette found little joy in -these forced embraces; Sylvie found more. She did not tell herself that -she was stealing from the garden of the poor, and that later she would -royally return some of the fruit. But what one keeps to oneself in order -not to load oneself with troublesome scruples, one only tastes the -better with one's closed mouth. And although she had no unkind feeling, -Sylvie found more pleasure in making the child fondle her and in -displaying her power over him in Annette's presence. Annette, pretending -to joke, would say, in a careless tone, "Out of sight, out of mind." But -her heart did not take it as a joke. There was no joke about it. Annette -had no humor save that of the intellect. Her love was as foolish as that -of a dumb creature. It was painful to be a woman among women and to be -obliged to hide one's feelings. People would only laugh at you if you -showed your poor famished heart. Annette, when she was with other -people, acted as if her love were an old story; she talked about her -day, the people she had seen, what she had learned, said and done—in -short, everything that was indifferent to her. (Oh, how indifferent!) -</p> - -<p> -But at night, by herself, in her apartment, alone with her child, she -could give free rein to the torment she felt. To her joy, too, her -torrential passion. No need to take precautions any longer. There was no -one from whom to hide herself. She had her son entirely at her mercy. -She abused her power a little; she wearied him with her wild affection. -Since here, away from Sylvie, he no longer had the upper hand, the -little politician did not show his annoyance: till morning came he would -have to humor this extravagant mother. He used strategy; he pretended to -fall asleep. He did not have to pretend very much; sleep came quickly -after his full days. All the same, it had not quite come when, like a -lamb in his mother's arms, with his eyes closed, Marc would seem to be -overwhelmed by it. Annette, interrupting her prattle, was obliged to -carry him to bed; and the little comedian, in the half-sleep down which -he let himself slip, step by step, down which he slid on the banisters -to the foot, laughed in his sleeve as he watched through his eyelashes -the credulous Mamma who was mutely adoring him. He had a sense of his -superiority, he was grateful to her for it; and sometimes in a transport -he would even throw his little arms about her neck as she knelt beside -him. By a surprise like that Annette was repaid for her troubles. But -the stingy child did not repeat it often, and Annette had to fall asleep -hungry. It was not before she had turned over in bed many times to -listen to the child's breathing as her thoughts revolved feverishly. He -had not kissed her nicely, and she said to herself, "He doesn't love -me." -</p> - -<p> -Her heart would shrink. But she would at once correct herself. "What -nonsense I'm inventing!" The idea had to be repressed at once. How could -one live with it? No, it wasn't true. . . . The good little creature she -was accusing! She hastily sought among her memories for the best she -had, for the pretty tricks of the child, for his lovable ways. At the -images she called up she would have liked to snatch him out of his bed -and kiss him. . . . But hush! She mustn't wake him up. That delicious -little breath. . . . My treasure! . . . How good it will all be later! -</p> - -<p> -For as the present was decidedly meagre, Annette made up for it by -inventing a future of motherly intimacy with her son that conformed with -her desires. She needed an idol to absorb the energies of her nature. -For some time now they had been troubling her again. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XIV">XIV</a></h4> - -<p> -It was no longer a restless melancholy, that neurasthenic depression -which had preceded her child's illness and which the illness had -dissipated—those days of a life that was at a standstill, in which -she felt emptied of energy and interest: the becalmed sea before the flow -of the tide. -</p> - -<p> -This was the return of the oceanic flood. It announced itself by a -roaring of the waves, a nocturnal resurgence. For a time maternity had -satisfied the passionate elements of her nature. The material fatigue of -a working life had set up a dam against them. But, gathering in the -shadow, they beat against the rock. The soul, which as it grows climbs -up the spiral of life, found itself returning to a state bordering on -that from which it had passed, four or five years before, between the -burning summer of the hotel in the Grisons and the spring of love with -Roger Brissot. Bordering on it, but not the same. One returns on the -spiral above the past; one does not descend to it again. Annette's -nature had ripened. There was no longer in her agitation any of the -blind ingenuousness of the young girl. She was a woman; her desires were -keen and definite. She knew whither they led. And if she did not wish to -know, it was precisely because she did know. Her will had matured no -less than her flesh. Everything about her had become richer, and -everything had assumed an accent of passion. -</p> - -<p> -The reappearance of these familiar demons, these dreaded demons, was -like a midday when a storm is gathering. A heavy silence, a silence big -with the tempest to come. It followed the careless joys and the careless -sorrows of the young morning. The shadows slipped unceasingly over -Annette's face. She had become tense. When she was in company or off her -guard, when she was not distracted by the child's presence, she would -fall into a dumb silence, with a line between her brows. When she became -aware of this, she would slip noiselessly away. Any one who had been -disturbed about her would have found her in her room, setting it in -order, making her bed, turning the mattress, polishing the furniture or -the floor, using more movements than were necessary, but not succeeding -in stifling the spirit that resounded within her. She would stop in the -midst of something she was doing, upright on a chair, a bit of chiffon -in her hand, or leaning on the window-sill. Then she would forget -everything, not only the past but the present as well, the dead and the -living, even her child. She saw without seeing, she heard without -hearing, she thought without thinking. A flame that burned in empty -space. A sail in the wind of the open sea. She felt the great breath -that passed through her limbs, and the ship vibrated with all its masts. -And then from the boundless void emerged the face of the things that -surrounded her. From the court of the house over which Annette was -leaning mounted the familiar sounds; she recognized the voice of the -child talking and singing. But her reverie was not interrupted; it took -another course. It was the song of a bird on a summer afternoon. O sunny -heart, what an amount of life you still have to give! Take the world -into your open arms! Too much plunder! . . . Her consciousness relaxed -its grip; she fell back into the incandescent gulf where there was no -longer any song, any child's voice, any Annette . . . nothing but a -powerful vibration of sunlight. . . . -</p> - -<p> -Annette awakened, leaning on her elbow on the window-sill. -</p> - -<p> -But at night the tormenting dreams that had disappeared since Marc's -birth took up their abode in her. They came in groups of three or four, -ceaselessly succeeding one another. Annette rolled from one to another, -layer after layer of them. She would get up in the morning fatigued, -feverish; she had lived ten nights in one. And she did not want to -recall what she had dreamed. -</p> - -<p> -Those who saw Annette frequently had observed her anxious brow and her -absorbed eyes; they did not understand this sudden change, but they were -not disturbed by it; they attributed it to external causes, material -difficulties. For Annette these periods of anxiety were a season of deep -renewal. She could not do justice to them, for they brought with them -the weight of gestation, which was more agonizing than that of -maternity. It was a maternity indeed, that of the buried soul. The human -being is wrapped up like a seed in the depths of matter, in the amalgam -of humus and human loam where the generations have left their debris. -The labor of a great life consists in disengaging it. For this -childbirth a whole lifetime is necessary, and often the midwife is -death. -</p> - -<p> -Annette had the secret anguish of the unknown being who was to emerge -from her some day and rend her. Overcome by fits of shame, she would -shut herself up in a tumultuous retreat, face to face with the immanent -Being; and their relations were hostile. The air was charged with -electricity; its gusts rose and fell in the immobility. She realized her -danger. In vain had her consciousness left in the shadow the thing that -disturbed her. "In the shadow" meant in herself, in her own home. And to -feel her home peopled from top to bottom with beings whom she did not -know was far from reassuring. -</p> - -<p> -"All that. . . . I am all that. . . . But what does it want of me? . . . -What do I myself desire?" -</p> - -<p> -In reply, she said to herself, "You have nothing more to desire. You -possess." -</p> - -<p> -Her stiffened will turned all the violence of her love upon the child. -These continual recurrences of maternal passion were not very fortunate. -Abnormal, excessive, unhealthy—(for this passion sprang from an -impossible attempt to turn into a path that was not theirs alien and -insistent instincts)—they could only end in disappointment. She -repelled the child. Marc would not submit to being monopolized in this -way. He no longer concealed his ill-will from his mother. He thought her -a bore and he told her so in cross little monologues which happily -Annette did not hear, but which Sylvie overheard one day. She scolded -him for it, bursting out laughing at the same time. Marc, in a corner by -the door, was talking to the wall, saying, as he made little impatient -gestures, "That woman makes me tired!" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XV">XV</a></h4> - -<p> -People are always writing the history of the events of a life. They -imagine they see the life itself in them, but in reality these events -are only its outer covering. The life itself is within. The events act -upon it only in so far as it has chosen them; one might be tempted to -say it has produced them, and in many cases this is the exact truth. -Twenty events take place each month under our eyes; they do not count -for us because we have nothing to do with them. But when one of them -touches us, it is a safe wager that we have gone halfway to meet it; and -if the shock loosens a spring in us, it is because the spring is wound -up and awaiting the shock. -</p> - -<p> -Towards the end of 1904, Annette's moral tension gave way, and the -transformations it brought about in her seemed to coincide with certain -changes which, at the same moment, took place in her. -</p> - -<p> -Sylvie married. She was twenty-six years old; she had had enough of the -joys of liberty; she decided that the moment had come to enjoy those of -a home. She took her time making her choice. The stuff of which a lover -is made does not need to be lasting; it only needs to be pleasing. But a -good husband must be made of sound, durable material. Of course it was -important for Sylvie that he should be attractive too. But there are -ways and ways of being attractive. In choosing a husband one doesn't -have to lose one's head. Sylvie consulted her common sense and even her -social sense. Her business was going well. Her establishment, <i>Sylvie: -Robes et manteaux</i>, had acquired, along with a select clientele of the -fairly well-to-do bourgeoisie, a justified reputation for elegance and -style at moderate prices. She had reached a point in her business where -she could go no further alone. To advance she would be obliged to -associate other forces with her own and add to her seamstress's workshop -a tailor's shop that would enable her to enlarge the circle of her -operations. -</p> - -<p> -Without taking any one into her confidence she looked about for some one -who would fall in with her plans. She made her choice soberly; and once -it was made she decided to marry. Love would come later. It should have -its proper place: Sylvie would not marry a man whom she could not love. -But love must await its turn. Business came first. -</p> - -<p> -The name of the object of her choice was Selve (Leopold); and no sooner -had she cast her eye upon him than the little business woman decided on -the name, the beacon-light of the new establishment, <i>Selve et -Sylvie</i>. But although, for a woman, a name is never unimportant, -Sylvie was not so foolish as to be satisfied with a name alone; and -Selve (Leopold) was a good match. No longer very young, looking all of -his thirty-five years, a rather handsome man in the popular style, -rather ugly, in fact, but solidly built, with reddish blond hair and a -florid complexion, he was the head cutter at a great tailoring -establishment, skilful in his craft, earning a good income, steady, -anything but dissipated. Sylvie had taken his measure; the question was -settled—in Sylvie's mind. She had not consulted Selve about it. -But the assent of the man she had chosen was the last thing to trouble -her. She took it upon herself to win this. -</p> - -<p> -Selve himself would never have sought anything of the kind. He was -devoted to his own welfare and his own habits, a good soul, not at all -ambitious and rather egoistical, and he had made up his mind to remain -unmarried. It would not have occurred to him to quit his lucrative -position as second fiddle, which entailed no responsibility, with an -employer who knew his value. Sylvie upset his plans and his peace of -mind in the twinkling of an eye. She met him—she took pains to meet -him—at an exhibition whither she had gone, as he had, to study the -modes they were both going to contribute to launch. She was surrounded -by admirers, and without paying any attention to Selve she began to -distribute her smiles and clever repartees to three or four young men -who were very much taken with her. Suddenly, Selve, observing with some -annoyance this grace and wit that were not for him, perceived that he -had become the object of her attentions. She was speaking now only for -him; the others had ceased to count. He was all the more affected by -this instantaneous change because he attributed it to his own personal -merit. With this stroke he was caught. Farewell to his resolutions! -</p> - -<p> -A little while after this, Sylvie begged Annette to join her in the -evening after dinner at a time when there would be no one in the -workroom. -</p> - -<p> -"I've asked you to come," she said, "because I'm expecting some one." -</p> - -<p> -Annette was surprised. "What! You need me? Can't you receive him alone?" -Sylvie said soberly, "I think it would look better." -</p> - -<p> -"This attack of propriety has come rather late." -</p> - -<p> -"Better late than never," said Sylvie, diplomatically. -</p> - -<p> -"Nonsense! Try that on somebody else." -</p> - -<p> -"Just what I'm doing," said Sylvie. -</p> - -<p> -Annette shook her finger at her. "You have some one up your sleeve. -Well, who is this someone?" -</p> - -<p> -"Here he is now." -</p> - -<p> -Selve (Leopold) was ringing the bell. He seemed to be annoyed at not -finding Sylvie alone, but as a well-bred man he put a good face on the -situation. It was not easy for him to appear to advantage alone in the -presence of two young gossips who were alarming enough anyway and were -evidently in each other's confidence. He felt that these two pairs of -eyes were watching him. After a few rather heavy gallantries, of which, -as a matter of politeness, Annette had her share, he began to talk about -business, the trade, the strenuous life he led. Annette, with an air of -being interested, charitably asked him a few questions. He became more -confident and told about the difficulties of his career, his -disappointments, his success, missing no opportunity to place himself in -a good light. He seemed simple, cordial, self-sufficient; he played with -all his cards on the table. Sylvie, who was more cautious, watched his -play before playing herself. Annette, who was soon relegated to the -background, where she followed the game, was less surprised at the -competence of her sister than at the humbleness of her choice. It would -have been easy for Sylvie to make a more brilliant match; she had simply -not wished to do so. She distrusted men who were too handsome and too -clever. It goes without saying that she would not have chosen a goose or -a fool. <i>In medio</i>. . . . What she wanted was a prudent second in -command, not someone who would command her. She knew that in marriage -everybody has to give something and wants to get something: it is a -question of supply and demand. For herself she demanded the right to -remain the mistress in her own household. And what did he demand? Ah, -poor fellow, to be loved for himself, just for himself. He was not -conceited; he knew well enough that he was neither handsome nor -attractive. But it was his weakness to wish to be married for love. -Ridiculous, wasn't it? He shrugged his shoulders at the idea, for he was -no fool, this big, ingenuous creature who was familiar enough with life -and sceptical, as three out of every four Frenchmen are, where women -were concerned. But the need of the heart is so strong! That stupid -need! "Why shouldn't I be loved? I'm as good as others who are." So, by -turns, he was almost humble and almost fatuous. And always begging. This -was not very clever of him, and it was even worse that he allowed it to -be seen. For she had seen him very clearly, the sharp-eyed minx. And to -those big, blue, round, rather prominent eyes that were always asking, -"Do you love me?"—her soft eyes responded neither with a Yes nor with -a No. For uncertainty is like fuel to love. -</p> - -<p> -When the sisters found themselves alone again, Annette said to Sylvie, -"Don't play with him too much!" -</p> - -<p> -"Why not?" said Sylvie, wondering. "The stakes are worth the trouble." -</p> - -<p> -"Then it's serious?" -</p> - -<p> -"Very serious." -</p> - -<p> -"I can't imagine you married." -</p> - -<p> -"Really? I dare say you will see me so two or three times." -</p> - -<p> -"I don't like you to laugh at these things." -</p> - -<p> -"What would one laugh at, my dear Salvation Army lassie? Come, Mrs. General -Booth"—she pronounced it "Botte"—"don't knit your beautiful -brows. I'm not thinking of changing before I've even tried it. I am -marrying in the hope that it's for good. But if it doesn't last, one -must be able to resign oneself." -</p> - -<p> -"I am not anxious about you," said Annette. -</p> - -<p> -"Really? I thank you for his sake. Has he made a conquest of you?" -</p> - -<p> -"He isn't good enough for you, Sylvie. But I shouldn't want you to make -this good man suffer some day." -</p> - -<p> -Sylvie smiled and looked at her teeth in the mirror. -</p> - -<p> -"Suffer! Everybody makes the other person suffer. That's nothing. Of -course he will suffer, poor man! I shouldn't mind being in his place. -Come, don't disturb yourself about him. Do you think I don't know the -value of my Adonis? It isn't dazzling, but it amounts to a good deal. I -know what I'm about. I shan't tell him, for it doesn't do to spoil men. -It allows them to think they have rights over us. But privately I shall -not forget it. I shan't do myself the wrong of doing him a wrong. And if -I don't promise never to make him angry—which might be an -excellent way of making him a little thinner—I shan't put him on -the grill unless it is necessary. Of course, assuming that I have no -reason to complain of him. Otherwise it would serve him right to give -him his due. And I pay in cash. I am an honest business woman; I don't -deceive my customers any more than is necessary for me to live. Unless -they try to get the best of me. Then I get the best of them. Don't I!" -</p> - -<p> -"To think," Annette exclaimed, "that you never can get her to talk -seriously!" -</p> - -<p> -"Life would not be endurable," said Sylvie, "if one had to say serious -things seriously!" -</p> - -<p> -Leopold was not long in coming back again, and Sylvie did not leave him -languishing. She had quickly made the tour of the enemy's positions, -reconnoitered behind his defensive works and discovered his arms, his -baggage and his supplies before giving herself in good earnest. She had -no difficulty in leading him to adopt her own plans. Till his last day -Leopold was to preserve the illusion that it was he who had conceived -the idea of establishing the great dressmaking establishment of <i>Selve -et Sylvie</i>. -</p> - -<p> -The marriage was arranged for the middle of January, a time when work -would be rather slack. The preceding weeks were a joyous time in the -workroom. The radiant Leopold regaled the whole band, took them to the -theatre and the movies. They all had such a need for laughter! When one -of them was married, it was as if she brought marriage into the house. -And each of the others greeted the visitor with a whispered "Don't -forget! The next time it will be my turn. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -Annette was caught up in the general joy. Instead of feeling the -deprivation of her own life, she asked herself what had become of her -troubles. They slipped away as a chemise slips down one's thighs. O -youthful body, sorrow cannot cling to you! Not that this marriage gave -her any satisfaction. She had loved her sister too tenderly not to feel -rather sad to see her going still further away from her. And it was not -pleasant to see such a pretty girl giving herself to this rather vulgar -man. Annette had had other dreams for Sylvie. But with our dreams other -people have nothing to do. Their way of being happy is their own, not -ours. And they are right. -</p> - -<p> -Sylvie was satisfied. Leopold's affection, the admiration which he -showed for her, touched her vanity and gradually her heart. As she had -said to her sister, she appreciated the serious character of the man she -had chosen. He would be a steadfast companion who would not interfere -with her. She had no intention of abusing him—though one never -knew!—but she was certain that she would never have to give him any -minute account of her behavior. Leopold made no attempt to learn about -Sylvie's past; he trusted her, and this pleased her. His experience of -life had left Leopold with few illusions; above all, it had left him not -unwilling to compromise; it inclined him to assume for his own use and -accept for that of others, as a rule of conduct, the cordial egoism of -an honest, sceptical, affectionate man who was not exacting and did not -ask of others more than he himself could give. -</p> - -<p> -Sylvie, indeed, found herself much closer to him than to Annette. She -loved Annette more; but, as she said to herself, laughing, she would -never have married a masculine Annette. No, that would have turned out -badly. -</p> - -<p> -Selve inspired her with a feeling of complete security. This restful -impression dispensed her from thinking about him: she thought of the -wedding, of the dress she was making, of her future household, and she -made great plans for the business. It was perfectly satisfying. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XVI">XVI</a></h4> - -<p> -The wedding took place one radiant winter day. Selve carried off all his -friends to the woods of Vincennes. They separated into jolly groups. -Annette gaily mingled with them. In former times she would have been -sensitive to the noisy and rather vulgar side of these rejoicings, but -she was not so now. She laughed with these bold young men, these hearty -girls who were giving themselves a day of merriment between their days -of toil. She took part in their sports, and she enchanted everybody with -her enthusiasm. Sylvie, who had known her as cold and contemptuous, -watched her running and amusing herself in this frank way. There she was -playing blindman's buff, with her eyes under the bandage, red with -excitement, her mouth open and laughing, her chin in the air, as if to -seize the light as it flew past, her arms stretched out before her and -her hands like wings, striding along with great steps, stumbling, -laughing her prettiest. . . . What was the beautiful, vigorous body of -this passionate blind girl going to seize? Who was going to seize her? -More than one person who was watching her might have had this thought. -But Annette seemed to be thinking only of her game. What had become of -the cares that had weighed upon her yesterday? Of her anxious, tense, -absorbed air? . . . What elasticity she had! . . . Sylvie congratulated -herself on having succeeded in distracting Annette from her troubles, -and she was overjoyed at this. But Annette knew very well that the cause -lay much further back. She was not disburdened of her cares because she -was laughing at the wedding. She was laughing at the wedding because she -was disburdened. -</p> - -<p> -What had happened? It was a strange thing and one that was not the work -of a day, although on this day it appeared so. -</p> - -<p> -One Sunday morning, a few weeks before this, she had been sitting -half-clad before her dressing-table. She took a long time over her -toilet on Sunday, for on other days she was obliged to go out so early. -She was weary with the accumulated fatigue of the week. The child, who -had just got up, had slipped out of the room to find his aunt. He was -very much interested in the wedding, and he amused Sylvie by the -reflexions which, as a man of experience, he expressed on this subject. -Leopold petted him; as a way of courting Sylvie, he courted her little -lap-dog. And Marc, flattered and proud of his importance, passed all his -time in the apartment below, remaining with his mother very reluctantly. -Annette was bitterly disheartened by this. But this morning her -weariness swept away her sadness and even mingled with it a secret -feeling that lightened it. She sighed, however, from habit. She was -feeling that mingled fatigue and enjoyment which came from knowing that -she could, thank heaven, stretch out at full length on this Sunday -without having to stir. . . . Sunday! In former days Annette had never -dreamed how precious it was. -</p> - -<p> -"How weary I am, how weary I am! How good it is not to budge! If I were -sitting in the most uncomfortable position, leaning on my elbow in some -tiresome way, I shouldn't move. I could sleep for a thousand years. -There is a charm in this that holds you. One's afraid of breaking it. -Let's not stir. How good it is!" -</p> - -<p> -She saw through the window, on the roof opposite, a stream of smoke -coming from the baker's chimney. It was carried off by the wind, in -spirals, bright and gay, stretching out, rolling, running and dancing -against the blue sky. Annette's eyes laughed and her spirit danced in -the meadows of the air—borne along in the wake of the mad arabesques. -All the weight of the earth had slipped away from her. Her spirit felt -naked in the wind and the sun. Annette sang in a low voice. . . . And -suddenly there appeared before her the enraptured eyes of a young man -who had looked at her the day before in an omnibus. She did not know -him, and in all probability she would never see him again. But this -look, which she had surprised as she suddenly turned her head—he did -not think he was being seen—confessed so naïvely how charmed he was -that ever since a fresh joy had remained in her heart. She pretended to -herself that she did not know the cause of this; but as her mirror -returned to her the image of her smile, she saw herself with the eyes of -the one who would love her some day. . . . What has become of you, my -worries? I can still hear them murmuring fitfully, far, far away. -</p> - -<p> -"Enough, enough! No more of this. One must be reasonable." -</p> - -<p> -There was nothing new in what Annette said to herself. Twenty times she -had said it. But although she did as she said, she expected nothing from -it. Success does not always depend on being reasonable. Reason is a good -counsellor, but counsellors do not guarantee payment. And the heart is -only convinced by the reasons of the heart. -</p> - -<p> -She had no lack of these now. Annette was willing to see how absurd were -the demands made by her maternal love. But if she was ready to do this, -it was because other stifled aspirations had risen to the surface. She -could no longer deny them; she no longer wished to do so. And once she -had given them this tacit acquiescence, Annette felt liberated. The -voice of her reawakened youth said to her, "Nothing is lost. You still -have the right to be happy. Your life is just beginning." -</p> - -<p> -The world revived. Everything had a savor again. Even on dull days she -had her luminous moments of escape. Annette formed no plans for the -future. She abandoned herself to the happiness, whatever it might be, of -a future that she had recaptured. Yes, yes, she was young, young as the -young year. . . . A whole life before her, . . . There would never be -enough of it. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XVII">XVII</a></h4> - -<p> -One of those gay, precocious months of February that have so much charm -in Paris. Spring is not yet in the sky or in the heart, but everything -is pure, pure light, the limpid joy of a child that has awakened. The -beautiful dawn of the year is beginning, and before the birds have -reappeared one hears them coming. As from the summit of a tower lost in -the clear sky, one sees them, clouds of wings, swarms of swallows. They -are coming, they are crossing the seas. And already some of them are -singing in my heart. -</p> - -<p> -Like every healthy being, Annette loved all the seasons. In adapting -herself to them, she shared in their secret energies. Those of the -springtime exalted her. -</p> - -<p> -She went along, happy to be walking, happy to be working, carrying home -with her a wholesome fatigue and a hearty appetite. She was interested -in everything, filled with a new curiosity about the things of the mind -which for four years she had abandoned, about books, music; and -sometimes in the evening, although she was half dead, she would go out -and run to the other end of Paris to use a ticket to some concert. -Sylvie envied her; she herself was in the early stages of pregnancy, and -it was far from pleasant. -</p> - -<p> -In her evening walks, Annette was followed more than once. She did not -notice this: absent-minded, dreaming, amused, she would suddenly stop in -the midst of her soliloquy with the feeling that she was dragging -something along at her heels. She would wake up and look curiously at -the thing that was whispering to her, shrug her shoulders or make a face -and start off briskly saying, "What an old idiot!" -</p> - -<p> -The idiot was often young, and Annette thought, "In a dozen years Marc -may be like this." -</p> - -<p> -She stopped indignantly. The false Marc received the wrath of the eyes -which she turned upon the other, and he did not persist. The eyes began -to laugh. The idea of seeing Marc in such a situation, a big handsome -boy, amused her in spite of everything. But her maternal pride was hurt. -She scolded herself for the observation she had made. Or rather she -scolded Marc. -</p> - -<p> -"Young scamp!" she muttered. "When I get home I'll pull his ears." (She -did pull them.) -</p> - -<p> -These little adventures entertained her. At first, that is. But when -they kept on. . . . -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, what a pest! This is tiresome. Am I never to be allowed to walk in -peace any more? Because you look to the right, to the left, in the -simplest, most harmless way, because you laugh as you walk along, people -have to suspect you are thinking of love! I know love, I have seen -enough of it. The fools who imagine one can't get along without them! It -never occurs to them that one can be happy without them, just because -it's a fine day and one is young and has the little one needs. Let them -think what they like! Am I thinking of them? Of them! Haven't they ever -looked at themselves?" -</p> - -<p> -She herself looked at them; and as she was in a state of grace (that is, -of gay freedom) she certainly did not idealize them. Far from it. She -asked herself how one could possibly fall in love with a man. Man was -certainly not a beautiful animal. One would have to have lost one's head -to find him attractive. And the daughter of Rivière, who was a good -Frenchwoman, of the strong classical type, a reader of Rabelais and -Molière, repeated to herself Dorine's remark to Tartuffe. -</p> - -<p> -She made fun of love. (Ah, how she deceived herself!) She defied it, and -she carried it in her heart. Sly and apparently asleep, it was awaiting -its hour. These little skirmishes were preparations for the real attack. -The enemy was approaching. The friend. . . . -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Who could have suspected him? Anyone else, perhaps. But this man—what -an idea! -</p> - -<p> -Julien Dumont was just about the age of Annette, between twenty-nine and -thirty years old. Of middling height, with a slight stoop, a rather sad -face and one that would have been unattractive without the fine, brown, -gentle, serious eyes that were humbly caressing when one overcame their -shyness, a bony forehead, with a depression in the middle, a big nose, -pronounced cheek-bones, a short black beard, an affectionate mouth that -was concealed under a very long moustache—it was Julien's almost -invariable habit to conceal whatever was least ugly about him—the -dull, old-ivory complexion of a man who has been nourished more by books -than by sunlight. A face that lacked neither intelligence nor goodness, but -was rather depressed and languid, a face that life and the passions had -not yet marked. In his whole appearance there was something walled-in, -something despondent. -</p> - -<p> -He was more ingenuous and inexperienced than Annette, who was still a -good deal so herself. For, in spite of her brief experience, an -experience that had been more violent than extensive, she did not know -very much about the world of love. It is true that the intuition she -owed to her father and her talks with Sylvie, which sometimes quite -equalled those of the Queen of Navarre, had not left her ignorant of -anything. But the lesson is badly learned which the heart has not -studied at its own expense. Words are not of the same stuff as reality. -And one sometimes fails to recognize what one has read about when one -meets it in life. Annette, who had been well taught, had almost -everything to learn. Julien had to learn everything. -</p> - -<p> -He had lived without love. We hesitate in France to speak of "innocents" -of this kind: they provoke the easy pleasantries of an intelligent race -that does not vary to any great extent in the forms of its wit. There -are many of these innocents. Whether it is the result of religious -scruples, or moral puritanism, or a deep-seated and sometimes -unwholesome timidity, or (and this is most frequently the case) an -overwhelming burden of work that absorbs their years of youth, a life of -poverty, toil, a repugnance for vulgar love affairs, a respect for the -future, for the one who is coming (who is not coming)—in every case, -no doubt, a certain cold-bloodedness lies at the bottom of their attitude. -The Nordic heart is slow to awaken, though this may mean, not that the -passions are going to lack force in the future, but merely that they are -gathering and being held in reserve. There are many of these innocents, -and the happy young people about them pay no attention to them. -Innocents are left empty-handed; they are left out of everything. Julien -knew scarcely anything about life except through his intelligence. -</p> - -<p> -The child of a bourgeois family, poor, laborious, which included only -his two parents, the father an obscure professor who had worked himself -to death, the mother devoted to her son, who returned the devotion, -deeply religious, a practising Catholic, a believer, with liberal ideas, -an unbroken, monotonous life of labor, coldly illumined by the severe -joy of conscience and habit, with no interest in politics, a distaste -for every sort of public activity, a profound love of the hidden, inner, -domestic life, he was a truly honest, modest soul, with a sense of the -value of the strong, humble virtues. And deep down in his heart was a -flower of poetry. -</p> - -<p> -He was an assistant teacher of science at a lycée. He had known Annette -years before at the University, when they were twenty. From the very -first he had been attracted by her. But Annette, who was rich at that -time, popular, radiant with youth and happy egoism, carelessly distant, -intimidated Julien. Her bolder companions assumed with her the place -that he would have liked to take. He envied them, but he did not try to -rival them; he considered himself inferior, ugly, awkward, ill-dressed; -he was unable to express himself and gave a false idea of his -intelligence and his sincerity. The sense of his physical uncouthness -paralysed him all the more because he was susceptible to beauty, and -Annette inspired in him an unexpressed emotion. For he thought her -beautiful; unlike his companions who paid court to her, he did not have -a sufficiently free mind to observe cavalierly the imperfections that -accompanied her attractions, the strongly marked eyebrows, the prominent -eyes, the short nose. He did not see these details. But he alone of all -these young men grasped the harmony of this living form, he alone -understood it; for, although most people stop at the mere external -pattern, every form expresses an inner meaning. Julien did not separate -in his own mind Annette's eyes, her forehead, her heavy eyebrows from -her energy of character and vigorous mentality. He saw her from a -distance, simply, summarily; but he saw her truly, more truly, at this -first glance, than when he came nearer and tried to know her better. He -was one of those far-sighted spirits that are embarrassed at close -range. Sometimes they have genius and stumble at every step. -</p> - -<p> -Julien and Annette happened to meet again one morning in the great -windowed hall on the first floor of the Library of Sainte-Geneviève. It -was nearly ten years since they had seen each other, and Julien had -prudently avoided thinking of the image that rose before him to-day. He -lifted his eyes from his book. On the other side of the table, a few -steps away, he caught sight of her reading. Over her beautiful auburn -hair was a fur toque; her cloak was thrown back from her shoulders. (It -was still winter, though Easter was approaching; and the hall, into -which the icy air of the square filtered through the great windows, was -never warm enough. Julien had kept his own coat-collar turned up, but -she, with her neck exposed, did not feel the cold.) With one elbow on -the table and her chin resting on the back of her hand, she had the -familiar attitude which he had seen so long ago, her brow bending -forward, her blond eyebrows knit, and the eyes running down the page, -while she nibbled the end of her pencil. He felt again as he had felt at -twenty. But it did not occur to him to get up and speak to her. -</p> - -<p> -In spite of the ardor with which she had applied herself to reading, as -she applied herself to everything, Annette's mind was still pursuing -more than one single thought. The ideas she had come to find in a book, -and that really attracted her, rarely presented themselves without a -procession of images which had very little in common among themselves. -She drove them away; but, as moment followed moment, the indiscreet -images came back and knocked at the door. The most intellectual woman -never completely forgets herself in what she is reading; the current -within her is too strong. Annette interrupted her reading to open the -flood-gate for a moment. -</p> - -<p> -As she thus stopped, casting about her a rather troubled glance, her eye -encountered that of Julien: it was fixed upon her. The image of Julien -seemed to her a part of what was passing through her mind. Then, -suddenly awakening—as when, in the morning, on her pillow, she found -herself all at once in the midst of life—she rose gaily and stretched -out her hand to him across the table. -</p> - -<p> -Julien, who was embarrassed, awkwardly went over and sat down beside -her. They began to talk. Julien said little. He was stunned by this -unexpected pleasure. Annette took everything into her own hands. She was -delighted; a happy past reappeared before her. Julien played a very -minor part in this: he was a mere link in the chain, and as the figures -of the dance unfolded Julien was soon far away. But he thought he still -saw himself in Annette's laughing eyes, and in his confusion he scarcely -knew what he was saying to her in reply. He did his best (the clumsy -soul!) to conceal the admiration she aroused in him. She still seemed -beautiful to him, more beautiful than ever, but closer, more human, -somehow new. . . . In what way? He knew nothing about her; the last -thing he had heard was the death of her father six years before. He -lived a solitary life; the gossip of Paris never reached him. . . . He -asked if Annette was still living in the Boulogne house. -</p> - -<p> -"What, don't you know? It's a long time since I moved away from there. -Yes, they put me out of it." -</p> - -<p> -He did not understand. She hastily explained, with an air of gaiety, -that she had been ruined by her own fault, her indifference to business. -</p> - -<p> -"It was a very good thing!" she added. -</p> - -<p> -And she spoke of other matters. Not a word about her life. She had no -desire to conceal it, but it was no concern of others. If Julien had -insisted, asked some question, she would have replied with the exact -truth. But he asked nothing, he would not have dared. His mind was lost -in this one thought: she was poor, poor like himself. Already the fiery -wind of hope had entered him. -</p> - -<p> -To disguise his feeling he leaned, with a gruff camaraderie, over the -pamphlet she had just laid down. -</p> - -<p> -"What are you reading here?" -</p> - -<p> -He turned the leaves. A scientific review. There was a file of them. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," said Annette, "I am trying to catch up with things. It's not -easy. I have lost ground during these five years; I have to earn my -living, giving lessons, and I haven't the time. I am taking advantage of -Easter. No more lessons. I'm resting. I am trying to make up for lost -time. I am taking double doses, you see. [She pointed to the open -reviews that surrounded her.] I should like to swallow them all. But -it's too much. I can't manage it; I have to learn everything all over -again. Such an immense number of things have happened since I have been -out of the running; they allude to works that I don't know. . . . -Heavens, how quickly things move! But I shall catch up with them again! -I swear I shan't be left behind on the road like a cripple. There are -fine things to be seen out there. I want to see them." -</p> - -<p> -Julien drank in her words. Of all she was saying what remained in his -mind was this: she was earning her living under difficulties, and she -was laughing. She rose in his admiration to a height which the old -Annette had never attained. And she dragged him along with her. For this -joy, which he did not possess, she brought to him. -</p> - -<p> -They went out together. Julien was proud to find himself in the company -of this beautiful woman; he could not get over his surprise that she -should have remembered him so well. In the old days she had hardly -seemed to notice that he existed. And here she was recalling to him -little forgotten events in which he was concerned. She asked about -Julien's mother. He was so touched that his embarrassment vanished; -haltingly, he began to tell her about himself; he was tongue-tied. -Annette listened to him with gentle irony; she would have liked to -prompt him. He was still at the beginning and his assurance was coming -back when she held out her hand to bid him goodbye. He had just time to -ask her if she was going to be at the library again, and he was -overjoyed to hear her say, "to-morrow." -</p> - -<p> -Julien went home in utter confusion. He was ashamed of himself, but -to-morrow he would make up for it. To-day he only wanted to think of the -miracle of this friendship. On her side, Annette, who was submerged in -Sylvie's environment, was pleased to have found again a comrade of her -intellectual years. Not that he was very enlivening—hardly -that—but he was a serious, sympathetic, honest boy. . . . What an -icicle! -</p> - -<p> -She had no reason the next day to change her opinion. Julien only thawed -out when he was alone at home. The moment he saw Annette again, the ice -at once returned. He was filled with consternation. He had prepared many -things to say, prepared a conversation as he would have prepared a -lecture, but under Annette's eyes nothing remained of it all. There was -only a tasteless extract left of the recitation that he had warmed up in -himself so many times. Even he was bored as he heard himself reeling it -off. He only recovered his equilibrium when they began to discuss -science and he himself was not in question. On that ground he was -precise and clear and even became quite lively. Annette could have asked -nothing more. Eager to learn, she pressed him with questions that -interested Julien by their intelligence; she was so quick in imagining, -though she often guessed wrong, and at a word she would turn up at the -exact point whither he wished to lead her. He liked this attentive face, -these eyes that plunged into his to reach his thought more quickly, and -then suddenly lighted up. She had understood! The joy of thought shared -in common, and this invisible sun and the immense perspective illumined -by its light, the joy of travelling together towards discovery by new -roads where he was her guide! It was delicious to talk in this way, in -the peaceful seclusion of this hall of books, this church of the mind. -</p> - -<p> -Delicious for him, but not for those who were near them. For he talked -too loud: he had forgotten that other people existed. Annette smilingly -told him that he must be silent and rose to go out. He followed her. But -once in the street again, with the table and the books no longer before -them, he became the same impotent soul whom Annette had seen the day -before. She tried to make him talk of himself, but her labor was lost. -And he could not make up his mind to leave her; he wanted to take her -back to the door of her house. He was stiff, nervous, abrupt from -embarrassment—at moments, unintentionally, even rather -impolite. . . . He was a fearful bore! Annette, slightly irritated, -thought, "How the devil can I get rid of him?" -</p> - -<p> -Julien perceived the mocking curve in this mouth that said nothing. He -stopped suddenly and remarked, in a tone of distress, "O forgive me, I'm -boring you. . . . Yes, I know it, I know it! I am such a bore! I don't -know how to talk. I am not used to it. I live alone. My mother is good, -very good, but I can't tell her about my thoughts. Many of them would -upset her; she wouldn't understand them. And I have never known anybody -who was interested in them. I don't expect it. You have been good to -listen to me so indulgently. I have let myself go on because I wanted to -tell you. . . . But it isn't possible. One can't tell things, one should -keep them to oneself. It isn't interesting, it isn't manly. Live and be -silent. I ask your pardon for having bored you." -</p> - -<p> -Annette was touched. There was real feeling in these words. This mixture -of modesty and sad pride struck her; she felt the disappointment and the -wounded affection under the shell of coldness. In one of those bursts of -emotion which she could not resist, she was seized with a kindly pity -for Julien. She said warmly, "No, no, don't regret anything. I thank -you. It was quite right of you to talk"—she corrected herself with a -touch of mockery that had no sharpness in it this time—"to try to -talk. Yes, it isn't easy. You are not used to it. . . . Well, I'm glad you -are not used to it. There are plenty of others who are! But there is -nothing to prevent me from hoping that I shall make you get used to it. Are -you willing? Since you have no one with whom you can talk?" -</p> - -<p> -Julien was too much moved to reply, but his look expressed a gratitude -that was still shy. Although it was past the hour when she should have -been at home, Annette retraced her steps so that they might still have a -few minutes together; and she talked to him with a kind, motherly -camaraderie, in a simple, cordial tone that was like a cool hand laid on -his aching forehead. Yes, he had been hurt, this big boy; with his moody -air he needed to be handled very gently. He was coming back to life now. -But she had to go in. . . . Annette suggested seeing him again from time -to time. And they confessed that, as for the work they had done in the -library, they might have done it just as well in the Luxembourg Gardens, -or . . . -</p> - -<p> -"Or . . . why not at my house?" -</p> - -<p> -And Annette, inviting him for some Sunday soon, vanished without waiting -for a reply. -</p> - -<p> -Ah, how well he might have talked, now that she was no longer there! He -went over the whole scene; he felt how kind Annette was. And since this -man, who was so well balanced in his intellectual life, was unable to -preserve any measure in the things of the heart, he slipped without -transition from the thought that his feeling was destined to remain -unreturned to the thought that perhaps . . . -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XVIII">XVIII</a></h4> - -<p> -Annette had not the least suspicion of what was taking place in Julien. -The unengaging appearance of her new companion seemed a guarantee -against love, and she thought that in some comic fashion it would also -guarantee Julien. She respected him. She pitied him. Pitied, he became -sympathetic. It was pleasant to tell herself that she could do him good; -and he became more sympathetic to her. But it would never have occurred -to her to be on her guard against him, still less against herself. -</p> - -<p> -She had forgotten her invitation when, on the following Sunday, he came -to recall it to her; and the joyous surprise with which she greeted him -was not assumed. But Julien who, for a week, had been thinking of -nothing but this moment, did not see the surprise and saw only the joy. -And his own increased. The weather was very bad. Annette had not thought -of going out this afternoon. As she was not expecting anybody; she was -in négligé, and so was the apartment. The baby had been playing there. -It is useless to have, as Annette had, a love of order; children oblige -one to give it up, along with so many fine plans that one has formed -without considering them. But Julien, referring everything to himself, -saw in this disorder no artistic effect, but a sign of some intimacy -that Annette wished to accord him. He came in with a beating heart, but -with his mind made up to appear this time in an advantageous light; he -assumed an air of assurance. It was not becoming to him, and Annette, -who was annoyed at being surprised in this confusion, was angry because -the intruder was so unceremonious. She at once became cold, and in an -instant Julien's pride was broken. So they remained, each as stiff as -the other, the one not daring to utter another word, the other waiting -with an air of malicious <i>hauteur</i>. -</p> - -<p> -"If you imagine, my dear boy, that I am going to help you to-day!" -</p> - -<p> -And then she saw the ridiculous side of the situation. She saw with the -corner of her eye the piteous look of the conqueror, and she laughed out -loud. Suddenly relaxed, she resumed the comradely tone. Julien did not -understand it at all: disconcerted but relieved, he too became natural -again, and at last a friendly conversation sprang up between them. -</p> - -<p> -Annette told him about her working life, and they confessed to one -another that they were not made for their occupations. Julien was -passionately interested in the science which he taught, but . . . -</p> - -<p> -"They can't follow me! They look at me with their dull eyes blinking -with sleep; there are hardly two or three who have a glimmer of -understanding; the rest are a heavy mass of boredom. If you sweat blood -and water, you can sometimes (not always) stir it for a moment, but it -always falls back into the pond. Try to fish it out again! It's work for -a well-digger. But it isn't their fault, the unhappy brats. They are -just like ourselves; they are victims of the democratic mania according -to which all minds absorb equally the same sum of knowledge—before -the normal age when they might begin to understand! Then come the -examinations, the agricultural matches, when they weigh these products -of ours who are crammed with a mixture of lame words and formless -notions. Most of these they hastily disgorge immediately afterwards, and -they are disgusted with learning for the rest of their lives." -</p> - -<p> -"Now I," said Annette, laughing, "like children very much, yes, even the -most unattractive ones. I am not indifferent to any of them. I should -like to have them all, I should like to hug them all. But one has to -limit oneself. Isn't that so? It's enough to have one. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -(She pointed to the disorderly room, but he did not understand and -smiled stupidly.) -</p> - -<p> -"It's a pity! When I see one who pleases me, I would like to steal him. -And they all give me pleasure. There is something fresh, an infinite -hope, even in the ugliest. . . . But what can I do with them? And what -can they do with me? I see so little of them. They are only in my hands -for an hour. And then I run to the others. And my little ones also run -from hand to hand. What one hand has done the other undoes. Nothing -sticks. These little formless souls, these little soulless forms, who -dance the Boston and the two-step. We run about. Everyone runs about. -This life is a race-course. No one ever stops. People die, they join the -dead. Ah, what unhappy souls, never granting themselves a day to collect -their thoughts! And they don't grant us one either, we who would so like -to have it!" -</p> - -<p> -Julien understood her. He had no need to learn the value of a retreat, -the horror of the tumultuous world. And their understanding increased -when Annette said that fortunately, in the midst of the flood, there -were still a few islets where one could take refuge, the beautiful books -of the poets and especially music. The poets had little attraction for -Julien; their language was beyond him. He had the strange distrust of it -which is common in minds that love thought and often have their own -poetry, but do not perceive the deep vibrations of the music of words. -The other music, the language of sounds, is more accessible to them. -Julien loved it. Unfortunately, he lacked the time and the means to go -and hear it. -</p> - -<p> -"I lack them too," said Annette. "But I go just the same." -</p> - -<p> -Julien did not have this vitality. After his working day he stayed -quietly at home. He did not know how to amuse himself. He saw a piano in -the room. -</p> - -<p> -"Do you play?" -</p> - -<p> -"Ah, it isn't easy!" said Annette, laughing. "<i>He</i> doesn't allow it." -</p> - -<p> -Julien, vaguely troubled, asked in surprise who could prevent her in -this way. Annette, with her ear alert, listened to the little steps that -were tapping along as they climbed the stairs. She ran and opened the -door. "See, there's the monster!" -</p> - -<p> -She brought Marc in. He had returned from his aunt's. -</p> - -<p> -Julien did not yet understand. -</p> - -<p> -"My little boy . . . Marc, will you say good-afternoon?" -</p> - -<p> -Julien was astounded. It had not even occurred to Annette that he would -be surprised. She went on gaily, holding Marc, who tried to escape from -her, "You see, I haven't lost my time in spite of all." -</p> - -<p> -Julien did not have the wit to reply. His attention was occupied in -concealing his confusion. He attempted a rather foolish smile. Marc had -succeeded in slipping from his mother's hands, without having said -good-afternoon. (He thought this ceremony ridiculous, and he made off, -leaving his mother talking, "talking and saying nothing," well knowing -that the instant after she would have forgotten it in something else. -There was no continuity in women.) Four steps away from Julien, in the -folds of a curtain which he twisted in his embrace, Marc looked the -stranger up and down with severe eyes; and in his childish way (which -was fairly accurate) he had quickly sized up the situation. Decision -without appeal: he did not like Julien. The question was settled. -</p> - -<p> -Julien, whose embarrassment was increased by this look from the child, -tried to resume the thread of the conversation while following the -thread of his own thoughts. But he only succeeded in becoming more -confused. He reassured himself, however. Feebly. Annette's confident -manner made it impossible for him to suspect that she was unmarried: -that was out of the question. But where was the husband? Alive or dead? -Annette was not in mourning. No, he was not reassured. What had become -of this man? Julien did not dare to ask directly. After many detours, he -finally took a chance, imagining he was very clever, and carelessly -remarked, "Have you been alone very long?" -</p> - -<p> -"I am not alone," said Annette. And she pointed to her child. -</p> - -<p> -He learned nothing more. But since she thus admitted by implication that -she was alone (with the child) and that she took it gaily, it must be -because her mourning was far, very far, behind her, and she no longer -thought of it. Julien's interested logic ended victoriously, "Monsieur -Malbrough is dead." -</p> - -<p> -Farewell to the husband! He was no longer disturbing. Julien threw one -more shovelful of earth on him, and then, turning to Marc, gave the -child a crooked smile. Marc was becoming sympathetic to him. -</p> - -<p> -But he had not become so to Marc. He was more familiar with the -constitution of the atomic bodies than with that of a child's mind. Marc -fully realized that this demonstration of good nature was not natural, -and the result was that he turned his back, grumbling, "I forbid him to -laugh at me." -</p> - -<p> -Annette, amused by Julien's useless efforts to win over the child, -thought she ought to make up for Marc's ungracious greeting. She -questioned Julien about his solitary life with an interest that wandered -a little at first, but soon ceased to do so. Julien, who was always more -sure of himself when he was sitting in the half-light of a room, talked -about himself this time quite frankly. He was simple; he never, or -hardly ever, posed, in spite of his desire to please. In his sincerity -he revealed a candour that one seldom meets in Paris in a man of his -age. When he touched upon subjects that were dear to him, he had a -delicacy that veiled a restrained emotion. In these moments of abandon -when, in the kindly silence of the encouraging Annette, his true inner -nature seemed to blossom, a gleam of moral beauty lighted up his face. -Annette looked at him attentively, and what she felt for him was no -longer merely a friendly indifference. -</p> - -<p> -After this they saw each other regularly on Sundays and a little oftener -during the week, when they had a free moment. Julien used as a pretext -the books which he lent her; it was quite necessary to accompany them -with explanations so that Annette should have less difficulty in -understanding them. He brought Marc some rather expensive but badly -chosen presents for which the little enemy was by no means grateful to -him: he thought them childish and beneath his dignity. But nothing could -shake Julien's good will, firmly resolved as he was not to see anything -that would disturb him. Solitary spirits who distrust the world lose all -discernment, all desire to be discerning, the moment they abandon their -distrust in favor of some chosen soul: they are liberated. Julien's -mind, ingenious in deceiving itself, arranged to its satisfaction the -memories it brought back from each of its visits: everything that -Annette had said and everything that surrounded her. (Without being -conscious of it, he indirectly glorified himself.) Annette's -inattentiveness, her wandering replies, even the bored silences which he -sometimes caused her, all rendered her more beautiful and more touching -to him. And as, each time, he still discovered some new little trait, -which did not accord with the portrait he had made, he kept remaking the -portrait, he made it over ten times; and although the portrait no longer -resembled what it had been at the beginning, Julien never admitted that -there had been a change in its essential constancy. He was ready to -alter his ideal of love as many times as the beloved object altered. -</p> - -<p> -Annette had become aware of his love for her. She was amused by it at -first, then touched, then grateful, a little, a good deal, in spite of -everything. ("The least handsome boy in the world can only give what he -has. Thank you, my good Julien.") Then she was a little troubled. She -told herself frankly that she should not allow him to start down that -slope. But it gave the boy so much happiness, and certainly it was not -displeasing to her. Annette was susceptible to affection; susceptible -also to gentle attentions, the flattery of tenderness. Too much so, -perhaps. She confessed it. Love, the admiration she read in his eyes were -for her a caress that she could not but wish to have repeated. . . . Yes, -she admitted it: perhaps it was not quite right, but it was so -natural! She would have to make some little effort to deprive herself of -it. She did so, but she had no luck; everything she said to push Julien -away from her (did she really say everything?) attracted him all the -more. It was a fatality! One has to resign oneself to a fatality. She -laughed at herself, while Julien, troubled, wondered if she was not -laughing at him. -</p> - -<p> -"Hypocrite, hypocrite! Haven't you any shame?" -</p> - -<p> -She had no shame. Can one resist pleasing a heart that has surrendered -itself into one's hands? It brightens one's days. And what harm does it -do? What is the danger? As long as one is calm and master of oneself and -desires only what is good, the good of the other person! -</p> - -<p> -She did not know that one of the insidious paths through which love -finds its way is the fond vanity of believing that one is -necessary—that feeling which is so strong in the heart of a true -woman: it satisfies her double need of doing good, which she confesses, and -of pride, which she does not confess. It is so strong that when she has a -well-developed soul she often prefers the man for whom she cares less, -but whom she can protect, to the man for whom she cares more, but who -can get along without her. Is not this the essence of maternity? Suppose -the big boy were to remain the little chick as long as he lived! The -woman with a mother's heart, like Annette, finds it easy to attribute to -a man whose love appeals to her a charm he does not possess. Her -instinct disposes her to observe only his good qualities. Julien had -plenty of these. Annette rejoiced to see his timidity vanishing and his -real nature, which had been repressed, expanding in the daylight with -the soft happiness of the convalescent. She said to herself that -hitherto no one had understood this man, not even the mother of whom he -was always talking and of whom she was beginning to be jealous. As for -poor Julien, he did not know himself. . . . Who would have suspected -that under this rough shell there was a tender, delicate soul? . . . -(She was exaggerating.) . . . He needed confidence and he had lacked it: -confidence in others, confidence in himself. To believe in himself he -needed another believer. Well, she believed! She believed in Julien, for -Julien's sake, so much that she ended by believing in him also for her -own. . . . He blossomed under her eye as a plant in the sunlight. And it -is good to be the sun for somebody else. "Open, my heart!" Was it to -Julien's heart or her own that she was speaking? Already she had ceased -to know. For she too was blossoming as a result of the good she was -doing. An abundant nature dies if it cannot nourish others from itself. -"To give myself!" -</p> - -<p> -Annette gave too much. She was irresistible. Julien no longer concealed -his passion. And Annette—a little late—recognized that she was -in danger. -</p> - -<p> -When she saw love rising within her, she threw up a feeble defence; she -tried not to take Julien's feelings seriously. But she did not believe -herself, and all she did was to make Julien more importunate. He became -pathetic. -</p> - -<p> -Then she was seized with fear. She besought him not to love her, to let -them remain good friends. -</p> - -<p> -"Why?" he asked. "Why?" -</p> - -<p> -She did not want to say. She had an instinctive fear of love; she -remembered what she had suffered through it, and an intuition warned her -of what she would have to suffer again. She summoned it and she drove it -away from her; she desired it and she fled from it. Julien's entreaties -she resisted sincerely, and in the bottom of her heart she prayed that -her adversary might conquer her; resistance. -</p> - -<p> -The combat would have dragged on if a certain event had not hastened the -issue. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XIX">XIX</a></h4> - -<p> -With her sister's husband Annette was on terms of the frankest -friendship. This good soul, for all his slight vulgarity, lacked neither -heart nor integrity. Annette respected him, and Leopold treated her with -a rather ceremonious consideration. Ever since their first meetings he -had gathered that she belonged to a different species from his and -Sylvie's; she intimidated him. He was all the more grateful for the -kindness she showed him. At the time when he was paying court to Sylvie, -she had been his ally; more than once she had come to his aid when he -was exposed to the ridicule of his fiancée, who was too sure of her -power not to abuse it. Later she had even discreetly interposed in -misunderstandings in the household, or when Sylvie yielded to sudden -whims, crotchets and deviltries, now and then, escaping from her own -vexations by vexing her husband. Leopold, who did not understand such -things, would come and tell his troubles to Annette, who undertook to -bring Sylvie back to reason. He had even gone so far as to confide to -his sister-in-law more than one matter which he had not mentioned to his -wife. Sylvie was not unaware of this, and she teased Annette, who took -it gaily. Everything was natural and frank among the three. Leopold had -never complained of the place held in his home by his wife's sister and -the little boy, though they were often rather in the way; he thought, in -fact, that Sylvie did not do enough to help Annette, whose courage he -admired; and he spoiled the child. Annette, who knew through Sylvie what -Leopold thought, was grateful to him. -</p> - -<p> -The period of Sylvie's pregnancy was not, for those about her, -especially the husband, a happy time. Frequent discords drove Leopold -and his consort apart. Not that Sylvie meant to get along without him. -She thought very little about her maternity and was unwilling to make -any change in her manner of living. But he did think about it. Those -long months of gestation were far from being for her what they had been -for Annette, an endless dream of languid happiness that was finished too -soon. Sylvie was not made to brood on dreams. She was impatient and had -no intention of giving up one of her duties, one of her rights or one of -her pleasures: she overtaxed herself. Her health was affected by her -nervous state, and her character did not gain by it. When one is -tormented, one is glad to torment others. Sylvie, who was uncomfortable, -was indignant because her husband was not; and she undertook to make him -so. She harassed him with her teasing, malicious, perpetually changing -moods. She was even (unexpectedly enough) jealously amorous, though this -did not prevent her from abusing him. There were days when he did not -know which way to turn. -</p> - -<p> -Annette was at hand to receive his lamentations. He would climb up to -her floor, complaining; she would listen to him patiently, and she found -a way to make him laugh at his little misfortunes. These meetings, as -they went on, established between them a sort of complicity, for they -had so many feelings in common. And sometimes, in Sylvie's presence, -they would exchange a malicious glance. Perfectly honest, both of them, -they took no precautions and abandoned themselves to a familiarity -which, if it was innocent, was not entirely harmless. Annette did not -dream that there was any risk, and these friendly coquetries amused her. -Leopold was captivated by them; he asked for nothing better. He had been -attracted for a long time by the radiant force of joy that issued from -her. Just at that moment Annette was discovering Julien's love, and it -troubled her deliciously. The rest of the world was all a haze. When she -had just seen Julien, and Leopold was talking to her, she listened to -Leopold and replied to him, but it was to Julien that she was smiling. -Leopold had no means of guessing this. -</p> - -<p> -He knew what he wanted. He resisted like a decent fellow. But a decent -fellow is a man. He should not play with fire. -</p> - -<p> -One Sunday in May the four of them, Sylvie, Annette, Leopold and little -Marc, went for a walk in the direction of Sceaux. After an hour of -strolling, Sylvie, who was a little tired, sat down at the foot of a -slope and said, "Well, young people, climb it if you want to! You will -find us still here." -</p> - -<p> -She remained behind with the child. Annette and Leopold went gaily on. -Annette was animated, joyous, the best of company. Leopold, with his -jolly talk, eased the moral tension in which Julien's love and his -intellectual conversation held her. The path wound between the long wall -of a great estate and a rise of ground covered with flowering bushes. -Through the holes in the hedges they saw, as they climbed, the sloping -orchards with their white and pink tufts. -</p> - -<p> -A fantastic sky, with the busy clouds racing over its delicate blue. The -laughing wind, like a young dog, bit them by fits and starts. Annette -was walking ahead, picking flowers, singing. Leopold was following her; -he watched her bending over, watched her robust frame under the tightly -fitting dress, her bare hands, her bare neck, reddened by the lash of -the wind, and amid the foaming hair the red shell of her ear, the tip of -which looked like a drop of blood. The slope rose again to the right, -and the road formed a passage in which the rushing wind streamed down -upon them. Annette, without turning, asked her companion a question. He -did not reply. She went on, bending over, picking flowers and talking. -And as she joked with Leopold, who was silent, it suddenly occurred to -her that there was something dangerous in this silence. She let her -flowers fall. She straightened herself, but she did not have time to -turn when . . . she almost fell. He had clasped her in his arms. She had -been brutally seized, and she felt on her neck a panting breath. An -eager mouth was kissing her throat, her cheeks. Instantly stiffening, -bracing herself, with all her unconscious fighting forces collected, -with her chest and her spine she furiously shook the man who had seized -her: she broke his hold and found herself face to face with the -aggressor. Her eyes flamed with anger, but he did not relax his grip. A -rough struggle followed, like that of animals that hate each other. -Rough and brief. Annette, whose outraged instincts gave her an added -strength, violently repulsed the man, and he tripped and stumbled. He -remained there before her, doubly humiliated, panting, scarlet, and they -looked at each other with rage in their eyes. Not a word was said. -Suddenly Annette clambered up the bank, crept through a hole in the -hedge to the other side, and fled. Leopold, who had come to his senses, -called after her. She stopped twenty paces away and would not let him -approach. They redescended the hill on different sides of the hedge, -keeping their distances, on their guard, hostile and ashamed. Leopold, -in a changed voice, implored Annette to come back, begged her pardon. -Annette turned a deaf ear towards him, but she heard him: the confusion -of this voice reached her through the barrier of her bitterness. She -slackened her pace. -</p> - -<p> -"Annette!" he besought her. "Annette! Don't run away! I don't want to -pursue you. See, I'm staying here, I shan't come near you. I've behaved -like a brute. I'm ashamed, ashamed. Call me any names you like, but -don't run away. I shall never touch you again, not even with the tip of -my finger. I'm disgusted with myself. I ask your pardon on my knees!" -</p> - -<p> -He knelt down awkwardly on the pebbles. He looked utterly wretched. He -was ridiculous. -</p> - -<p> -Annette, who was listening to him in cold silence, motionless, with her -face turned away, threw him a side-glance without looking at him. She -saw this humiliated man. She was touched by his humiliation; her warm -heart had the faculty of opening to the emotions of others as if they -were her own, and she blushed at Leopold's shame. She made a movement -towards him and said, "Get up!" -</p> - -<p> -He rose, and she instinctively recoiled a few steps. "You are still -afraid," he said. "You will never forgive me." -</p> - -<p> -"Don't speak of it any more," she answered dryly. "It's ended." -</p> - -<p> -They descended the road again. Annette was dumb and frozen. He had -difficulty in keeping silent. He was mortified, and he was trying to -justify himself. But he was not very eloquent, the poor man. His style -was not exactly noble. "I am a dirty cur!" he repeated angrily. -</p> - -<p> -Annette, still agitated, repressed a smile. Her mind was in a tumult, -and she found difficulty in calming it. She felt at the same time the -loathsomeness and the absurdity of the scene. She had not forgiven him, -and she was ready to pity the man who was accusing himself so -pathetically beside her. He continued to flounder. She listened to him -with bitterness, compassion, irony. He struggled to explain "this filthy -madness that passes through your body." . . . Yes, this madness, she -knew it, although it was not the time to tell him so. But he looked so -wretched that, in spite of herself, she said to him, "I know. One is mad -sometimes. What's done is done." -</p> - -<p> -They continued on their way, without speaking, their hearts heavy, sad -and embarrassed. Just as they were arriving at the spot where they had -left Sylvie, Annette made a gesture as if she were about to hold out her -hand to Leopold. But instead of doing so, she said, "I've forgotten it." -</p> - -<p> -He was relieved, though he was still troubled. Like a schoolboy caught -in some misdemeanor, he asked, "You won't say anything about it?" -</p> - -<p> -Annette gave him a little pitying smile. -</p> - -<p> -No, she said nothing. But at the first glance the sharp eye of Sylvie -had seen it all. She asked no questions. They spoke of other things. And -while all three, to hide their thoughts, made a great parade of -chattering all the way home, Sylvie observed the two others. -</p> - -<p> -From that day forward Annette and Leopold were never again alone -together. The jealous one was always watching; Annette too was on her -guard. In spite of herself she allowed her distrust to be viable. And -Leopold, who was hurt, brooded over his unconfessed bitterness. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XX">XX</a></h4> - -<p> -Annette's eyes were opened. She could no longer remain undistrustful of -herself and others. She could no longer pass along, laughing, as she had -done before, heedless, because she did not seek them, of the desires she -aroused. Society being as it is, customs being as they are, her -situation as a single woman, young and free, not only exposed her to -pursuit, but legitimized it. No one could believe that she had freed -herself, in the boldest fashion, in order to shut herself up afterwards -in a widowhood the constancy of which was without an object. She -imagined she had changed with maternity, and no doubt maternity was a -great flame. But another flame still burned in her. She tried to forget -it, because she was afraid of it; and she imagined that no one saw it. -But this was not so; in spite of her, the fire of love burned on. And -other people, if not she, were in danger of being its victims. Leopold's -adventure had shown her this. It was hideous. She was revolted by it. In -the disillusioned eyes of one who is not in love, the act of love seems -a grotesque or disgusting bestiality. As Annette saw it, Leopold's -attempt was both. But Annette did not have a calm conscience. She had -fanned these desires. She remembered her thoughtless coquetries, her -arts, the provocations she had given him. What had driven her into them? -That repressed force, that inner fire which she was obliged to foster or -stifle. Stifle it one cannot, one should not! It is the sunlight of -life. Without it, everything is plunged in shadow. But at least it -should not consume that to which it ought to give life, like the chariot -that was given into the hands of Phaëton. Let it follow its regular -course through the sky! Marriage then? After having so long avoided it, -the perception of the dangers that menaced her led her to tell herself -that a marriage of affection and esteem, of calm sympathy, would be a -bulwark against the demons of the heart and a protection against pursuit -from without. The more she convinced herself (and everything conspired -to convince her: her material and moral security, the attraction of a -home and the solicitations of her heart), the less resistance she -opposed to Julien's supplications. In order to yield to them, she went -over all the reasons she had for loving him. But she did not wait for -these reasons in order to love him. For already there had begun within -her that construction of the mind which creates an exalted vision of the -chosen one. Julien had preceded her in this, but as she had a richer and -more passionate nature she had soon outdistanced him. -</p> - -<p> -No longer on her guard, surrendering to the ardor of her frank nature, -she used none of those artifices with which a cleverer woman masks her -defeat when her heart is captured and she allows people to believe that -she is still mistress of it. Annette had made a gift of hers. She told -Julien. And from that very moment Julien began to be uneasy. -</p> - -<p> -He knew very little about women. They fascinated him and disconcerted -him. Rather than know them he preferred to judge them. He idealized -some, he condemned others. Towards those who fell into neither of the -two categories he remained indifferent. Very young men—and Julien, -owing to the slightness of his experience, had remained very -young—are always hasty in their judgments. As they are full of -themselves and their desires, they seek in others only for what they -wish to find. Whether on the moral or the carnal side, naïve persons -are like roués in one respect: when they love they are always thinking -of themselves and never of the woman. They refuse to see that she exists -outside of them. Love is the one test that can teach them. It teaches -the few who are capable of learning—but generally to their cost -and that of their partners; for when at last they know it is too late. -The naïve astonishment, old as the ages, that bewails the irreducible -duality which is the bitter fruit of love, that disappointed dream of -unity, is the usual result of this initial misunderstanding. For what -does "love" mean if it is not "loving someone else"? Without possessing -the egoism of Roger Brissot, Julien, through ignorance, had no less -difficulty in getting outside of himself; and he had a still more -limited view of the feminine universe. He needed to be led prudently by -the hand. -</p> - -<p> -Prudent was the one thing Annette was not by nature, and love did not -teach her. It gave her the need of a generous confidence. Now that she -was sure of loving and being loved, she concealed nothing. Nothing in -the man she loved could have repelled her: why should she paint herself -up? She was healthy-minded, and she did not blush at being what she was. -Whoever loved her should see her as she was! She had clearly seen -Julien's naïveté, his lack of understanding, his alarm. She found a -tender and malicious pleasure in them. She was glad that she was the -first to reveal to him a feminine soul. -</p> - -<p> -One day she went to surprise him in his apartment. His mother opened the -door. An old lady, with gray hair tightly drawn across a calm brow that -was lighted up by two severe, watchful eyes, she inspected Annette with -a distrustful politeness and showed her into a neat, cold little -drawing-room with horsehair furniture. -</p> - -<p> -Dull family photographs and pictures from museums added a finishing -touch to the freezing atmosphere of the room. Annette waited alone. -After a whispered consultation in the adjoining bedroom, Julien dashed -in. He was delighted and he was frightened; he did not know what to say. -He spoke absent-mindedly. They were sitting in uncomfortable chairs with -stiff backs that thwarted every natural movement. Between them was one -of those drawing-room tables that you cannot lean upon, tables with -sharp edges that hurt your knees. The cold glitter of the carpetless -floor and the dead faces under glass, like plants in a herbarium, -congealed the words on their lips and made them lower their voices. This -drawing-room absolutely froze Annette. Was Julien going to keep her here -during the whole of her call? She asked him if he did not want to show -her the room where he worked. He could not refuse, he even wanted to do -so. But he looked so hesitant that she said, "Would you rather not?" -</p> - -<p> -He protested, explaining that it was not in order, and took her in. It -was in much better order than her own rooms had been at the time of -Julien's first call, but there was no air of gaiety in Julien's room. It -served him both for working and sleeping. Books, a well-known engraving -that represented Pasteur, papers on the chairs, a pipe on the table, a -student's bed. She noticed overhead a little crucifix with a branch of -boxwood. Settled in the badly upholstered arm-chair, she tried to put -her host at his ease by gaily recalling to him the memory of their -student days. She talked without prudery of what they both knew. But he -was distrait, embarrassed by her presence and her freedom of speech; he -seemed preoccupied with what was going on in the next room. Annette, -embarrassed by contagion, held out bravely and succeeded in making him -forget the "what will she think of it?" At last he became quite lively -and they had a good laugh. When she got up to go he became awkward -again, leading her out. In the corridor they passed the mother's room; -the door was ajar; Mme. Dumont, from discretion or in order not to have -to speak to the stranger, pretended not to see them. The two women had -only exchanged a glance, and they were enemies already. Mme. Dumont, the -mother, was shocked by the call of this bold girl with her free and easy -ways, her dear voice, her laughter, her animation: she scented danger. -And Annette, who, during the visit, had perceived between Julien and -herself this invisible presence, had felt angry: passing the room of the -old lady who turned her back on her, she spoke and laughed more loudly -still. And she jealously thought, "I'm going to take him away from her." -</p> - -<p> -A week later, Julien came in turn, one evening, after dinner. He had had -his first discussion with his mother on the subject of Annette; and he -meant to assert his will. They were alone. Leopold had taken little Marc -to the circus. When Julien left her, a little before eleven o'clock, -Annette suggested walking back with him for the pleasure of enjoying -together the fresh night air. But when they reached his door, Julien was -troubled at the idea of leaving Annette to return alone. She made fun of -his fear. None the less, he masted on going back with her again, and she -did not protest. She would have him all the longer with her! So they -returned by the most roundabout way; and without quite knowing how they -got there, they found themselves on a steep bank of the Seine. It was a -June night. They sat down on a bench. The poplars rustled above the dark -water in which were spread the reddish and yellow lights of the lamps on -the bridges. The sky was far away, the stars were feeble, as if the -monstrous city had drawn all the life out of them. The darkness was -above and the light below. They were silent. Words could no longer -express their thoughts, but, without looking at each other, each read -the other's mind. Julien's desire set Annette's heart aflame; but his -timidity kept him bound and motionless, and he did not dare even to lift -his eyes to her. She smiled and watched him, without turning her head, -as she kept her eyes upon the red reflexions on the river; he could not -make up his mind! Then she leaned towards him and kissed him. -</p> - -<p> -Drunk with love and gratitude, he kissed her in return, while the -insidious point of a dull anxiety fastened itself in his brain. A harsh -remark of his mother's: "These bold, poverty-stricken girls who are -trying to find somebody to marry them. . . ." He had pulled it angrily -out not long before, but the tip of the sting had remained under the -skin. He was ashamed. Mentally he asked Annette's pardon. He knew that -the insulting suspicion was false. He believed in her religiously, but -he was troubled. And each new visit troubled him more. Annette's -freedom, the freedom of her manners, the freedom of her ideas, the -freedom of her opinions on every kind of subject—especially on -social morality—her calm lack of prejudices, terrified him. He was -as narrow in his way of thinking as in his dress, rather dull in his -ideas, inclined to severity. She, on the other hand, was generously -indulgent and full of laughter. It did not occur to him that she might -be as much of a Puritan as he where she herself was concerned, while -with an ironical tolerance she applied to others their own measure. -Tolerance and irony disconcerted him. She saw this; and when he -expressed himself on some question with an unjust and excessive -harshness she did not attempt to oppose his way of thinking; she smiled -at this naïve rigidity which did not displease her. Her smile disturbed -Julien more than her words. He had the impression that she knew more -than he. It was true. But how much more? And just what did she know? -What experience had she had? -</p> - -<p> -Like his mother—and some of his mother's spiteful remarks had -contributed to make him so—this man of fine but impoverished vitality -was vaguely alarmed by the brilliant health, the radiance of this woman. -He had the most ardent desire for her, but he was afraid of her. In the -walks they took together he felt that he cut a poor figure. Annette's -perfect poise in every company added to his embarrassment. And although -she would have liked this embarrassment if she had observed it, he was -humiliated by it. But she did not observe it. She was utterly absorbed -in the song within her. Annette mistakenly thought that no one but -herself heard this song; and she did not see Julien's anxious glance -when he asked himself, "At whom, at what, is she laughing?" -</p> - -<p> -She seemed so far away! -</p> - -<p> -He did not cease to see—he saw more clearly than ever—her great -intellectual force, her moral energy. At the same time she remained for -him a dangerous enigma. He was divided between two opposite feelings, an -invincible attraction and an obscure mistrust that were like a remnant -of the primitive instinct that recalls to the man and the woman of to-day -the original enmity of the sexes, for which the carnal union was a form -of combat. That suspicious instinct of defence is strongest perhaps in -a man like Julien who is at once keenly intelligent and poor in -experience. As it is impossible for him to see a woman just as she is, -he sees her now too simply, now as full of snares. -</p> - -<p> -Annette contributed to these oscillations of thought by her way of -alternately saying everything and saying nothing, of revealing -everything and concealing everything, her bursts of passionate -expansiveness and her hermetic silences, which sometimes lasted during a -good half of their walk. . . . These terrible silences—what man has -not suffered from them?—during which the life of the companion who -walks at your side goes down into those regions that you will never -know! . . . Not that as a usual thing they cover very profound secrets. If -you plunged into them you would find that they did not rise above your -heel. But whatever the depth may be, the sheet of silence is opaque: the -eye cannot penetrate it. And the tormented spirit of the man has plenty of -time to conjure up all sorts of alarming mysteries. The idea would never -have entered the head of a Julien that he might be the author of them, -that if a woman is silent it is often because she knows so well how -little the man understands her. Annette's silence, which was ironical -and a little weary on some days, tolerated a false interpretation of her -feelings on the part of her lover, for she knew that he loved the false -and did not love the true. -</p> - -<p> -"If you wish . . . As you wish! . . . Of course. I am not as I am. I am -as you see me." -</p> - -<p> -But these silences of acquiescence only lasted for a time. From the -moment Annette perceived that there might be danger in frank -explanations (since Julien was unable to understand them) and that it -would be more prudent to hold her peace, she spoke. To be silent in -order to avoid uselessly annoying Julien, yes. But to deceive him, no. -And if there was danger in speaking, all the more reason. That was the -time when you couldn't avoid speaking any longer. The greater the risk, -the greater was the pride that desired to brave it. This test of love -made her heart beat. If the test succeeded, she would love Julien all -the more. If it did not succeed? . . . It would succeed. Didn't Julien -love her? Let come what might! -</p> - -<p> -She played the game loyally. But there are some men who would prefer to -have their partners cheat. When Sylvie learned of Julien's love and the -plan for the marriage, she scolded Annette: good heavens, she wasn't -thinking of telling the whole truth? Of course it was absolutely -necessary for him to learn a part of it. When they were married the -official records would be sure to enlighten him. But there was always a -way of dressing up the truth. Since this boy loved her he would close -his eyes. She had only not to open them! To do so would be really too -stupid! Later there would be time to tell each other everything. . . . -Sylvie spoke honestly out of her experience. She wished her sister's -welfare. (She wished her own too; she would not have been displeased to -see them out of her house with all possible speed.) From her point of -view one didn't owe the truth to everyone, especially to one's fiancé: -it was enough to love him! Annette's truth, of course, was innocent, but -men are weak. They cannot endure the full truth. It has to be given to -them in small doses. . . . -</p> - -<p> -Annette listened to Sylvie calmly and spoke of something else. Useless -to reply: it would only make her more obstinate. Sylvie's morality was -not hers, and she preferred not to say what she thought of it. Sylvie -was Sylvie. She loved her. . . . But what a look she would have given -anyone else who had spoken to her so! -</p> - -<p> -"Poor Sylvie! . . . She judges men from those she has known. But my -Julien belongs to another species. He loves me as I am. He will love me -as I was. I have nothing to conceal from him. I have never done him an -injury. If any injury was done I did it to myself alone." -</p> - -<p> -Fully considering the risks, but trusting in Julien's magnanimity, she -made up her mind to speak. She brought up the subject of her past life. -With a common modesty, they had always avoided this topic. But more than -once, Annette had read in Julien's eyes what he burned and trembled to -ask, what he wanted both to know and not to know. -</p> - -<p> -She placed her hand tenderly on Julien's hand and said, "My friend, you -have always been so adorably discreet with me. I thank you for it. I -love you. . . . But I must tell you at last something you don't know -about me, something that I have been. You must know me. I am not free -from reproach." -</p> - -<p> -He made an apprehensive gesture that protested against what she was -going to say, as if he half wished to prevent it. She smiled. -</p> - -<p> -"Don't be afraid! I haven't committed any great crimes. At least I -shouldn't call them so. But perhaps I am too indulgent to myself, for -the world regards these matters differently. It is for you to judge. I -believe in your judgment. I am what you decide I am." -</p> - -<p> -She began to tell her story. More frightened than she wanted to appear, -she had prepared in advance what she intended to say. But simple as she -imagined it would be to utter this, it was very painful to her. To -overcome this constraint she made herself appear more free from emotion -than she was. She even revealed at moments a touch of irony, directed at -herself, which scarcely corresponded with the anxiety this recital -stirred in her: she resorted to it in order to protect herself. . . . -Julien did not understand it at all. He saw in this attitude only a -shocking light-mindedness and lack of conscience. -</p> - -<p> -She said first that she was not married. Julien had feared this. To tell -the truth, he had even been silently sure of it. But he had always hoped -that the contrary would turn out to be the case, and that Annette should -tell him this, that doubt should no longer be possible, filled him with -consternation. Intensely Catholic at heart, under his superficial -liberalism, he had not freed himself from the idea of sin. Instantly he -thought of his mother: she would never accept it. He foresaw a struggle. -He was very much in love. In spite of the grief that Annette's -confession caused him, in spite of the real fall her past weakness -signified for him, the "error" of her whom he loved, he loved her, he -was ready, in order to have her, to fight against his mother's -opposition. But someone must help him; Annette must second him. He was -weak; to endure the combat, he needed to summon all his strength, not -the least element of which was the strength of illusion. He needed to -idealize Annette, and if Annette had been clever she would have helped -him to do so. -</p> - -<p> -She saw the grief which her words caused. She had expected it; she was -sorry for it, but she could not spare him. Since they were to live -together, each would have to take his share of the trials and even the -errors of the other. But she did not suspect the conflict that was -taking place in him; and if she had thought of it, she would have -remained confident of the victory of love. -</p> - -<p> -"My poor Julien," she said, "I am giving you pain. Forgive me. It is -hard for me too. You believed that I was better than I am. You gave me a -higher place, too high, in your mind. . . . I am a woman. I am -weak. . . . At least, if I have made a mistake, I have never deceived -anyone else. I have always acted in good faith. I have always done that." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," he said hastily. "I'm sure of it. He deceived you, didn't he?" -</p> - -<p> -"Who?" asked Annette. -</p> - -<p> -"That wretch. . . . Forgive me! . . . That man who left you." -</p> - -<p> -"No, don't accuse him," she said. "I am the guilty one." -</p> - -<p> -She attached to this word "guilty" only the sense of a warm regret for -the pain she was causing him, but he seized upon it greedily. In his -confusion he longed to hold fast to the idea that Annette was the victim -of a seduction and that she had repented. . . . He had an extreme need -of this notion of "repenting"; it was for him a kind of compensation for -the hurt he had suffered, a balm for the wound it could not heal but -could render endurable; it gave him a moral superiority over Annette of -which—to be fair to him—he would never have made use. In short, -since he had no doubt about Annette's sin, he also had none about the need -of repentance. His Christian nature was imbued with both these ideas. The -most liberal Christian never frees himself from them. -</p> - -<p> -But Annette had sprung from a race with a different kind of soul. The -Rivières might be pure or impure, in the sense that Christian morality -attaches to this word; but if they were pure it was not in obedience to -an invisible God or his too visible representatives and their Tables of -the Law. It was because they loved purity as moral cleanliness, as -beauty. And if they were impure they regarded it as an affair between -themselves and their own consciences, not the consciences of others. -Annette could not admit that she must give an account of herself to -others. If she confessed herself to Julien, it was a gift of love that -she was making him. In all honesty, she owed him merely an account of -her life. But of her inner life she did not owe him any account. She -gave it to him of her own free will. She saw now that Julien would have -preferred to have her embellish the truth. But she was too proud to -profit by a lying excuse of which she felt no need. On the contrary, -when she understood what he wanted her to say she took pains to make it -clear that she had given herself to her lover. -</p> - -<p> -Julien, who was completely upset, would not listen to her. -</p> - -<p> -"No, no, I don't believe you," he said. "You are too generous. Don't -accuse yourself to defend that man who deserves nothing but contempt." -</p> - -<p> -"But I'm not accusing anyone," she said simply. -</p> - -<p> -Her words struck against his consciousness, but he refused to -understand. -</p> - -<p> -"You are trying to exonerate him." -</p> - -<p> -"I am not exonerating him. No one's to blame." -</p> - -<p> -Julien struggled. "Annette, I implore you not to talk that way." -</p> - -<p> -"Why?" -</p> - -<p> -"You know very well it's wrong!" -</p> - -<p> -"I know nothing of the kind." -</p> - -<p> -"What? You don't regret anything?" -</p> - -<p> -"I regret making you unhappy. But I didn't know you then, my friend. I -was free and alone; I had no obligations except to myself." -</p> - -<p> -"Is that nothing?" he thought. He did not dare to say it. -</p> - -<p> -"But still you regret it?" he said, insistently. "You know very well you -made a mistake." -</p> - -<p> -He did not want to accuse her. But he so longed to have her accuse -herself. -</p> - -<p> -"Perhaps," she said. -</p> - -<p> -"Perhaps," he took her up, dejectedly. -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know," said Annette. -</p> - -<p> -She saw where Julien wanted to lead her. Perhaps she had made a mistake, -if yielding to a transport of sincere love and pity was a mistake. -Perhaps, yes. "But if in my heart I can regret a sincere error, I don't -need to excuse myself for it. My heart has remained alone with its -suffering, communing with it alone in the silence. It must commune now -with its regrets. They concern nobody. . . . Regrets? . . . Let's be -honest to the end! There are no regrets!" After reflecting, she said, "I -don't think I made a mistake." -</p> - -<p> -Perhaps she was exaggerating in reaction against Julien's unconscious -pharisaism. (Poor Julien!) But even in the moments when she loved him -the most she could not bring herself to utter the word of regret which -he was expecting. . . . "I should so much like to say it! But I can't. -It isn't true." Regret what? She had acted in accordance not only with -her rights but with her happiness. For, costly as the latter had been, -she had had it—the child. And she knew (she alone) that this gift of -the child, far from dishonoring her, as a stupid public opinion -supposed, had purified her, delivered her for a long time from her -troubles, brought into her life order and peace. . . . No, for the sake -of assuring her future love she would never be base enough to slander -her past love. She even felt now a certain gratitude towards this Roger -who had only been an agent of her destiny, so inferior to the love and -the flame of life he had lighted in her. -</p> - -<p> -Julien felt this jealously. "Ah, you still love that man?" he said. -</p> - -<p> -"No, my friend." -</p> - -<p> -"But you are not angry with him." -</p> - -<p> -"Why should I be angry with him?" -</p> - -<p> -"And you are thinking of him." -</p> - -<p> -"I am thinking of you, Julien." -</p> - -<p> -"But you haven't forgotten him." -</p> - -<p> -"I could not forget anyone who had done me good, even if he ceased to -exist. Don't reproach me, you who have done me so much more good!" -</p> - -<p> -Julien was honest enough to respect Annette's frankness, and in his -heart he felt her nobility. This for him was an unaccountable spectacle, -the unwonted dignity of which revealed to him a new world—the new -woman. But another part of his nature was in revolt. His masculine -instincts were wounded. His Catholic and bourgeois prejudices were -horrified. The idea that he had, that he continued to have, of Annette -was poisoned with degrading suspicions. Instead of being surer of a -woman who gave up her secret to him with complete loyalty, he was less -sure of a woman whose past weakness had been revealed to him. He doubted -her fidelity in the future. He thought of that other living man who had -possessed her and whose child would be his. He was afraid of being -deceived, he was afraid of being ridiculous. He was mortified, and he -could not forgive her. -</p> - -<p> -As soon as Annette fully perceived the dangerous struggle that was going -on in Julien's mind and saw that the hope she had formed was menaced, -she trembled. She was utterly in the grip of the love she had provoked. -All her power of loving, all her capacity for happiness, she had centred -in this Julien. And in truth she had half deceived herself. But she had -only half deceived herself. Julien was not unworthy of her; his -qualities were real; they deserved love. Different as they were, they -would be able to live together with a little mutual effort to understand -and tolerate each other—and a little suffering, no doubt; and was a -little suffering too much to pay for a firm affection? Annette would -have been good for him; she would have invigorated him; she would have -been that great wind of confidence in life that would have swelled his -sails and carried him whither he could never have gone without her. And -Julien's delicate tenderness, his respect for woman, his moral purity, -even that candid religious faith which Annette did not share, would have -been wholesome for her; they would have given her passionate nature a -basis of security, the peace of home and of a soul of which one is sure. -</p> - -<p> -Ah, the misery of hearts that miss their destiny through a -misapprehension which their passion exaggerates, that know it and -reproach themselves for it and always will reproach themselves, but will -never yield the point that separates them just because they love too -much to make a moral concession to which they would disdainfully consent -with those to whom they are indifferent! -</p> - -<p> -Annette tormented herself now with the anxieties to which she had given -birth in Julien's mind. Was Julien right? . . . She was not infatuated -with her own judgment. She tried to understand other ways of judging. -Her character was not entirely formed: her moral instinct was strong, -but her ideas were not yet established; she reserved the right to revise -them. While quite young she had realized how artificial was the morality -of those who surrounded her, and she had found nothing upon which to -lean, nothing but her reason, which had often deceived her. She was -always seeking; she sought for other ways of thinking in which she might -breathe freely. And when she encountered a sincere conscience like -Julien's she scrutinized it eagerly: would this voice respond to the -appeal of her heart? She aspired to believe, this woman in revolt! She -was seeking, seeking for her moral homeland. . . . How she would have -loved to enter Julien's, to subscribe to its laws, even if they -condemned her! But it was not enough to long. She could not do it. What -Julien desired simply wasn't human! -</p> - -<p> -"I realize," she said to him tenderly, "that you are judging me as the -world judges. I don't reproach you. I admire the rigorous, preservative -force of its laws. They have their place in the sum of things and I know -that their roots are deep in your family. It is natural for you to obey -them. I respect them in you. But, my friend, all the efforts of my will -could never make me deny an action, even if it is condemned by everyone, -which has given me my child. Dear Julien, how could I deny what is my -only consolation, the purest joy perhaps that heaven will grant me in my -whole life? Don't try to blight it, but if you love me share my -happiness! There is nothing in it that can injure you!" -</p> - -<p> -She knew, even as she spoke, that he did not understand; she only -irritated him the more. And she was broken-hearted. But what could she -do? Lie to him? It was too dreadful that she had even thought of this -humiliating resource. But could she allow the breach to grow wider in -this affection that was so dear to her? It was as if this breach had -extended to her heart. . . . She was in mortal terror every time she -found herself in Julien's presence. What was he going to read to-day in -her face? -</p> - -<p> -As for him, he abused her love with all the baseness of a man who is -certain that he is loved. He knew that he was hurting her and he went on -hurting her. He in turn felt his power, and he began to desire her less -now he was sure that she desired him. -</p> - -<p> -She understood it all! She was in despair because she had betrayed her -weakness. But she went on. She abandoned herself to a superstitious -feeling: if fate intended her to be Julien's wife, she would be, -whatever she said; whatever she said, she would lose him if that was her -fate. -</p> - -<p> -But secretly she wished to believe that, in exchange for her submission, -fate would be favorable to her. Julien would be touched. -</p> - -<p> -"I put myself in your hands. Will you love me the less for that?" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XXI">XXI</a></h4> - -<p> -A strange travail was going on in Julien's mind. He loved her—no, he -desired her—as much as always. Who could say which it was? (He did -not want to know.) . . . In short, he still wanted her. But he was sure -now, not only that his mother would never consent to his marriage, but that -he himself would never be able to make up his mind to it. For many -reasons: bitterness, wounded vanity, moral disapproval, what might be -called a jealous repulsion. But he preferred not to dwell on these -reasons. "Yes, we know you, but don't show yourselves." His mind -arranged expedients to satisfy at once his hidden reasons and his -desires. . . . Annette, in the past, had declared herself a free woman -in love. He did not approve of this, no; but, after all, since she was -as she was, why should she not be just this with him whom she loved? -</p> - -<p> -He did not put it to her as bluntly as this. He pleaded all the things -that made marriage impossible (he brought forth new ones as fast as she -refuted them): the insurmountable obstacles, his mother's opposition, -the necessity of living with his mother, his financial straits, with -Annette accustomed to wealth, to society—poor Annette, reduced for -two years to giving private lessons!—the difference in their minds -and temperaments. . . . (This last argument came up just at the end, to the -dismay and terror of Annette, when she believed she had surmounted the -others.) With obstinate unfairness, Julien depreciated himself, the -better to mark the difference between them. It was enough to make one -laugh and weep. It was pitiable to see him looking for all these poor -pretexts for escaping, while she, forgetting her pride, pretended not to -understand, wore herself out finding replies, struggled feverishly to -keep him from leaving her. -</p> - -<p> -He was not leaving her. He did not refuse to take. He refused to give. -</p> - -<p> -When Annette perceived the object of all these barricades and what he -wanted of her, she had a feeling less of revolt than of prostration. She -did not have enough strength left to be indignant. To struggle was no -longer worth the trouble. That was what he wanted! . . . He! . . . -Wretched soul! . . . So he didn't know himself? So he didn't realize how -he appeared in her eyes? If he had been loved it was just because of his -solid integrity. It wasn't at all, not at all, becoming for him to play -the Don Juan, the libertine, the free lover! (For, in spite of her -grief, Annette's mind kept its ironical clearness, and it never failed -to seize the comic that was mingled with the tragic in life.) -</p> - -<p> -"My friend," she thought, tenderly, pityingly, disgustedly, "I loved you -better when you condemned me. Your rather narrow but lofty idea of love -gave you the right to do so. But now you no longer have that right. What -have I to do with this inferior love you are proposing to me to-day, this -love without trust? If trust is lacking there is nothing left between -us." -</p> - -<p> -Every love has its essence: where one blossoms, another withers. Carnal -love dispenses with respect. The love that is based on respect cannot -lower itself to ample enjoyment. -</p> - -<p> -"Why," cried Annette in her heart, which was rising in revolt, "I would -rather be the mistress of the first passer-by who pleased me than of -you, you whom I love!" -</p> - -<p> -For with him it would be degrading. Everything or nothing! -</p> - -<p> -To Julien's suggestions she thus opposed a firm, affectionate refusal -that hurt him. They continued to love one another, while judging each -other severely; and neither of them could resign himself to the loss of -their happiness. There they were, appealing to each other, desiring each -other, even offering themselves—incapable as they were of -pronouncing the word that would bring them together—the one -through inner weakness, that moral debility which with rare exceptions -(if a man can dare to say it) belongs to man, and which he does not -recognize, the other through that deep-seated pride which belongs to -woman and which she does not confess either: for the two sexes have been -so deformed by the moral conventions of a society built upon the victory -of man that they have both forgotten their real character. The weaker of -the two is not always by nature the one who calls himself so. The woman -is richer in the energies of the earth, and if she is caught in the -snare that man has thrown over her she remains a captive who has not -surrendered. -</p> - -<p> -Julien dimly perceived the justice of Annette's motives, and he did not -question their honesty, but he could not do violence to the timidity of -his own heart. He followed the opinion of the world, which he respected -less than Annette. By himself he would have accepted Annette's past, but -he could not accept it under the eye of the world; and he persuaded -himself that this was the eye of his own conscience. He did not have the -courage to take for a wife this woman whom he desired; and his -pusillanimity he called dignity. He was not able to delude himself -completely; and he was angry with Annette because he had not been able -to delude her either. He ought to have broken with her, but he would not -consent to this. And when Annette spoke of leaving him he held her back, -hesitated, suffered, caused her suffering. He was no more willing to -accept her than to give her up. He played the cruel game of keeping up -her hope, which he later killed. He shunned her when she was most loving -and was most loving when she resigned herself. Annette went through -painful crises of wounded affection. She ate her heart out. Sylvie saw -this and finally extorted the truth from her. She had seen Julien and -she had made up her mind about him. "He is one of those people," she -said, "who never make a decision till they are forced to do so. You can -do it; make him consent. He will be grateful to you later." -</p> - -<p> -But Annette had suffered too much from the thought that Julien might -reproach her some day (even if he never expressed it) if she married -him. When it was no longer possible to ignore the irremediable weakness -of his character and the futile hope of a lasting decision from which -his troubled spirit would no longer try to draw back, she settled the -question in good earnest. She wrote to Julien and told him not to -prolong this useless torment any further. She was suffering, he was -suffering, and they had to live. She had to work for her child, and he -had his own work. She had taken him away from it too long. They had both -been using up their strength, and they had none too much of it. Since -they could not do each other the good they had hoped for, let them not -do each other harm. They must not see each other any more. She thanked -him for all that he had been to her. -</p> - -<p> -Julien did not answer. Silence fell between them. But in their hearts, -bitterness, regret, wounded passion still fought with one another. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XXII">XXII</a></h4> - -<p> -Their love had not remained a secret from those who were close to them. -Leopold had watched it with an annoyance he had not been able to conceal -from Sylvie. His painful memory of that far from brilliant adventure of -his had left in his mind an involuntary resentment which had not become -less active a few months later. Far from it. For he found it possible to -pretend to himself that he had forgotten the reason for it. Sylvie, -already on the watch, was struck by his strange behavior: she observed -him and she found it impossible to doubt that he was jealous. In -accordance with the admirable logic of the heart, she was angry with -Annette. She took a violent dislike to her. In a measure the state of -her health explained these violent reactions. But the unfortunate thing -in such cases is that the reverberation is prolonged beyond the -condition that has caused them. -</p> - -<p> -In October Sylvie gave birth to a little girl. Joy for everybody. -Annette became as passionately attached to the child as if it had been -her own. It gave Sylvie no pleasure to see it in her arms, and she no -longer tried to conceal the hostility that she had hitherto repressed. -Annette, who, for a few weeks, had been listening to unkind words from -her sister, which she attributed to the passing illness, was no longer -able to doubt Sylvie's estrangement. She said nothing, avoiding any -occasion for annoying her. She hoped for a return of the old affection. -</p> - -<p> -Sylvie was on her feet again. The relations between the two sisters -remained apparently the same, and an outsider would not have noticed any -change. But Annette observed in Sylvie a cold animosity that hurt her. -She would have liked to take her hands and ask her, "What's the matter? -What have you against me? Tell me, dear!" -</p> - -<p> -But Sylvie's look froze her. She did not dare. She felt intuitively that -if Sylvie spoke she would say something irreparable. It was much better -to remain silent. Annette felt in her sister a wish to be unjust against -which she could do nothing. -</p> - -<p> -One day Sylvie said to Annette that she wanted to have a talk with her. -Annette, with her heart beating, wondered, "What is she going to say to -me?" -</p> - -<p> -Sylvie said nothing that could offend Annette, not a word of her -grievances. She talked to her about getting married. -</p> - -<p> -Annette gently changed the subject. But Sylvie was insistent and -suggested a match: a friend of Leopold, a sort of business agent, a -journalist in some vague way, with a certain style, the manners of a man -of the world, and varied, too varied, resources, who sold automobiles -and wrote advertisements, acted as an intermediary between the -manufacturers and their customers in clubs and drawing-rooms, and -received commissions from both sides. It was a proof that Sylvie had -changed greatly in relation to her sister that she could offer her such -a choice, and Annette was aware of the lack of affection this deliberate -slight indicated. With a gesture she stopped the description of the -candidate. Sylvie took it in bad part, asking if Annette found the -suggested suitor beneath her pretensions. Annette said that she had no -pretensions except to live alone. Sylvie replied that this was easy to -say, that it was all very well to want to live alone, but that first one -had to have the power to do so. -</p> - -<p> -"But do you think I can't?" -</p> - -<p> -"You? I challenge you to do it!" -</p> - -<p> -"You are unjust. I can earn my living." -</p> - -<p> -"With the help of other people." -</p> - -<p> -In the tone, even more than in the words, there was something -intentionally wounding. Annette blushed, but she did not take her up; -she did not want to bring about an open quarrel. -</p> - -<p> -During the following weeks, Sylvie's ill-humor was very noticeable. Any -pretext served her, the least disagreement in conversation, a detail in -dress, Annette's lateness at dinner, the noise little Marc made on the -stairs. They never went out together any more. If they had arranged for -a walk on Sunday, she set out with Leopold, without saying anything to -Annette, using the latter's unpunctuality as an excuse. Or at the last -moment she would call off the party they had planned. -</p> - -<p> -Annette saw that her presence was a burden. She spoke timidly of looking -for an apartment in some other quarter that would be less remote from -her pupils. She hoped they would protest, beg her to remain. They -pretended not to have heard her. -</p> - -<p> -She was cowardly; she stayed on. She clung to this affection which she -felt was escaping her. It was not only Sylvie whom she did not want to -leave. She was attached to little Odette. She endured more than one -painful affront without seeming to notice it. She lengthened the -intervals between her visits. -</p> - -<p> -Even so, they were too frequent for Sylvie. She certainly had not -returned to her normal state. An unwholesome jealousy was working in -her. Once when Annette was innocently playing with Odette, without -noticing a dry warning that Sylvie had given her to stop, the latter -rose, irritated, and snatched the little girl from her arms. "Go away!" -she said. -</p> - -<p> -There was such animosity in her eyes that Annette, struck by it, said to -her, "But what have I done? Don't look at me that way! I can't bear it. -Do you want me to go away? Do you want me not to come back any more?" -</p> - -<p> -"At last you understand," said Sylvie, cruelly. -</p> - -<p> -Annette turned pale. "Sylvie!" she cried. -</p> - -<p> -With a cold rage, Sylvie went on: "You are living at my expense. Very -well. That's all right. But that's enough. My husband and my daughter -are mine. Hands off!" -</p> - -<p> -Annette, with white lips, repeated, in an agonized tone, "Sylvie, -Sylvie!" -</p> - -<p> -Then suddenly a transport seized her too. "You wicked thing!" she cried. -"You will never see me again!" -</p> - -<p> -She ran to the door and went out. -</p> - -<p> -Ashamed of her violence, Sylvie pretended to laugh. -</p> - -<p> -"We shall see her again this evening." -</p> - -<h4><i>SUMMER</i></h4> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="PART_TWO">PART TWO</a></h4> - -<p><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XXIII">XXIII</a></h4> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/dropcap-a.jpg" width="70" height="70" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap nind"> -Annette left Sylvie's apartment intending never to enter it again. She -was weeping. She was burning with shame and rage. These two passionate -natures could not cease to love each other without almost hating each -other. -</p> - -<p> -Impossible for Annette to remain under the same roof with her! If she -had had the means she would have moved the next day. Happily for her, -she had to yield to practical necessities: to give notice, to look for -another apartment. In her first fury she would have preferred to place -her furniture in storage and camp out in a hotel. But this was not the -moment to squander her money. She had very little laid aside; what she -earned was spent as she went along; even when she had no recourse to her -sister's aid, the feeling that she could appeal to her in case of need -gave her a security that spared her any too keen anxieties over the -future. When she came to reckon up what she must have in order to live, -she was obliged to recognize, to her mortification, that if she were -thrown upon her own resources her actual work would not suffice to -support her. Living with her sister and taking some of their meals -together lightened her expenses. The child's clothes were given him by -Sylvie, and Annette paid only for the material of her own dresses. And -this was not to mention the things she borrowed or those which, while -they belonged to one, served for two, the small gifts, the Sunday -excursions, the little extra pleasures that brightened the daily -monotony. And then the credit which her sister enjoyed in the -neighborhood gave Annette the benefit of a certain latitude in paying -her bills. Now she would have to count upon paying cash for everything. -The beginning would be hard. The moving, the deposit, the expenses of -settling. And the great question, who was going to look after the child? -A contradictory question: for she had to earn money for the child, and -in order to earn it she had to leave home, and who would take care of -him? Annette had to admit that she would never have surmounted these -difficulties if they had come earlier, when Marc was very young. How did -other women manage? Annette was sorry for the unhappy souls, and she -felt humiliated. -</p> - -<p> -Place the child in a boarding-school? He was old enough to go to school -now. But she was unwilling to shut him up in one of those menageries. -What she had heard about those old-time institutions (things have been -somewhat improved since then), what she instinctively surmised about -this physical and moral promiscuity, had led her to regard it as a crime -to put one's child into them. She wanted to believe that the boy would -be unhappy there. Who could say? Perhaps he would have been very glad to -get away from her. But what mother can believe that she is a burden to -her child? She was not even willing to leave him at one of these schools -for his meals. She told herself that this was because of Marc's delicate -health; he needed special food; she had to watch over his diet. But it -was extremely fatiguing to come home from lunch when her lessons obliged -her sometimes to run to the other end of Paris. Going, coming, always in -movement. And the lessons did not bring in enough money. Some urgent -expense was always turning up upon which she had not reckoned. The boy -was growing very large, and Annette regretted that he was not like those -little beans which never grow faster than their shells. She had to -clothe him. Nor could she permit herself to neglect her own appearance; -her occupation would have prevented this if her pride had not done so. -So she had to find new resources. Copying to be done at home, the work -of some foreigner or a translation to be revised (an ungrateful task, -poorly remunerated); secretarial work, one or two mornings in the week -(also poorly remunerated); but all these things, taken together, were -enough. To earn money by any means! Annette did many things at once. She -made herself hated by the hungry rivals whom she thrust out of her way -in her pursuit of bread. But this time the devil could take the -hindmost. No more sentimentality! She had no time for it. You cannot go -back and pick up those who have fallen. It was true that she sometimes -had the vision in passing of some strained face that stared at her with -hostile eyes, some evicted competitor whom she would gladly have helped -in other days. A pity, but she did not have the time. She had to get -there first. She knew now where to find work, and she knew the shortest -way to it. Her diplomas, her degree, gave her an assured superiority. -And she was not unaware that she had advantages on another side, the -personal side, her eyes, her voice, her way of dressing, her skill in -handling her clients. Between her and other applicants they rarely -hesitated. Those that were sacrificed could not forgive her. -</p> - -<p> -Her new life was established on a healthily rigorous system. No empty -room for useless thoughts. From one day to another, every day was as -full as a nut, full and hard. After the trepidation of the first weeks, -when she did not know whether she could manage to live and keep her -child alive, she became used to it, she grew more confident, she even -ended by finding pleasure in the difficulties she had overcome. No -doubt, in the rare moments when the necessity of acting no longer held -her mind tense, when at night she laid her head on her pillow, there -were times before she went to sleep when her accounts, the thought of -her budget, weighed upon her. . . . If she dropped on the road? . . . If -she fell ill? . . . I won't. . . . Peace, I must sleep. . . . Happily, -she was tired; sleep did not keep her waiting And when the day returned, -there was no longer room for those "ifs" and apprehensions. No more room -for that which enervated, enfeebled, broke the soul. Penury and toil put -everything in its proper place—that which belonged to the necessary -and that which belonged to luxury. -</p> - -<p> -The necessary: daily bread. Luxury: the problems of the heart. . . . -Could she have imagined it? These problems seemed to her now of -secondary importance. All very well for those who have too much time on -their hands! She had neither too much nor too little. Just enough. One -thought for each thing she did, and not one to spare. So, full of -strength, she felt like a well-trimmed ship that is launched on the -waves. -</p> - -<p> -She was in her thirty-third year, and nothing had yet wasted her -energies. She perceived that she not only did not need protection but -that she was stronger without it. The difficulty of her life invigorated -her. And its first benefit was in liberating her from the obsession of -Julien, from the nostalgia of love, which, dull or violent, had poisoned -all her past years. She realized how satiated she was with sentimental -dreams, sweet things, tender things, hypocritical sensuality; merely to -think of them was repugnant to her. To be occupied with the rough facts -of life, to undergo its wounding contact, to be obliged to be hard -herself—that was good, it was vivifying. A whole part of herself, the -best part perhaps, certainly the healthiest, was born again. -</p> - -<p> -She no longer dreamed. She no longer tormented herself, even about her -child's health. When he was ill she did what had to be done. She did not -think about it beforehand. She no longer thought about it, indefinitely, -afterwards. She was ready for everything, she was confident. And that -was the best medicine. Dining these first years of desperate toil she -was not ill a single day, and the child caused her no real anxiety. -</p> - -<p> -Her intellectual life was no less curtailed than her emotional life. She -scarcely had time to read any longer. She might have suffered from this, -but she did not. Her mind made up the deficiency from its own resources. -She had enough to do to sort and arrange her new discoveries. For during -these first months she discovered a great deal; she discovered -everything. And yet in what respect had things changed? As for work, she -had been very familiar with that—or she had thought she was familiar -with it. And this city, these people were just the same to-day as -yesterday. -</p> - -<p> -Between one day and the next, however, everything had changed. From the -moment she had begun to seek her bread she had made the real discovery. -It had not been love, not even maternity. She carried these things -within her, but her life had expressed only a small portion of herself. -Hardly had she passed into the camp of poverty, however, than she -discovered the world. -</p> - -<p> -The world varies, according as one considers it from above or from -below. Annette was in the street now, between the rows of houses that -stretched away on both sides: she saw the asphalt, the mud, the menace -of the motor-cars and the flood of passers-by. She saw the sky above -(rarely luminous)—when she had the time! The space between vanished: -all that had formed the object of her life hitherto, society, -conversation, theatres, books, the luxury of pleasure and the -intelligence. She knew very well that they were there and she might have -enjoyed them, but she had other things to think about. Watching her -steps, looking out for herself, hurrying. . . . How all these people -ran! . . . From above one saw nothing but the meandering of the river: -it seemed calm, and one did not notice the strength of the current. The -race, the race for bread. . . . -</p> - -<p> -A thousand times Annette had thought of the state in which she found -herself to-day, in the world of toil and poverty. But what she had -thought then bore no resemblance to what she thought now that she was -taking part in it. -</p> - -<p> -Yesterday she had believed in the democratic axiom of the Rights of Man, -and it had seemed to her unjust that the masses should be deprived of -them. To-day, the injustice—if there remained any question of just -and unjust—was that rights existed for the privileged. There are -no rights. Man has no right to anything. Nothing belongs to him. He has -to conquer everything anew every day. That is the Law: "Thou shalt earn -thy bread in the sweat of thy brow." Rights are the deceitful invention -of a fallen combatant, to sanction the spoils of his past victory. -Rights are nothing but the strength of yesterday, heaping up its -treasures. But the living right, the only one, is work. The conquest of -every day. . . . What a sudden vision of the human battlefield! It had -no terrors for Annette. The courageous soul accepted this combat as a -necessity; and she found it just because she was "in form," young and -robust. If she conquered, so much the better! If she was conquered, so -much the worse! (She would not be conquered. . . .) She had not given up -pity, but she had given up weakness. The first of her duties was "Don't -be pusillanimous!" -</p> - -<p> -By the new light of this law of labor, everything became dear to her. -The old faiths were put to the test, and a new morality rose on the -ruins of the old, cemented on this heroic foundation. The morality of -freedom, the morality of strength, not of Pharisaism and debility. And -examining under this light the doubts that troubled her, especially that -which lay deepest in her heart, "Have I the right to my child?" she -answered, "Yes, if I can keep him alive, if I can make a man of him. If -I can do this, everything will be all right. If I cannot, everything -will be wrong. This is the only morality; everything else is -hypocritical." -</p> - -<p> -This inflexible decision redoubled her vigor and her joy in the -struggle. -</p> - -<p> -She was meditating in this fashion one day as she was walking about -Paris, going from one task to another. The walking excited her mind. Now -that her daily activity was methodically regulated, her dreams resumed -their rights. But they were waking dreams, clear, precise, dreams that -had nothing misty about them. The more limited her time was, the more -she made of these slight intervals; like ivy the hours climbed up, -covering the walls of the days. Annette brought her enlarged conceptions -of the true human morality face to face with the experiences of her day. -Work and poverty had opened her eyes. She had a new perception of the -untruthfulness of modern life which she had not seen when she was caught in -it. The monstrous futility of this life—nine-tenths of this -life—particularly for women. . . . Eating, sleeping, -procreating. . . . Yes, a tenth part had some use. But the rest? . . . This -"civilization"? What people call "thinking"? Is man—<i>vulgus -umbrarum</i>—really made for thought? He wants to persuade himself -that he is, he puts himself into the attitude for it, and he believes -that he holds it, as by consecrated exploits. But he does not think. He -does not think over his newspaper, or in his office, before the wheel on -which his everyday activities revolve. The wheel turns with him, turns -empty. Did they think, those young girls whom Annette had undertaken to -teach? What was the meaning of the words they heard, read, uttered? To -what did their life reduce itself? A few immense, depressing instincts -brooding in their torpor under a mass of playthings. Desire and -enjoyment. . . . Thought was also one of their playthings. Who was -deceived by it? Themselves. The garment of this civilization, its -luxury, its art, its movement and its noise—(that noise! one of -its masks, to make itself believe that it was hurrying toward some end! -what end? It hurried in order to stupefy itself)—what lay beneath -it? Emptiness. People gloried in it. They gloried in their tinsel, in -their chatter, in their trinkets. How rare were the men who revealed the -shining light of Necessity! To the eternal brute in man the voice of its -gods and its sages says nothing or is only one triviality the more. It -never escapes from the confines of its desire and boredom. Like man -himself, human society is a meretricious structure. Custom holds it -together. A touch can lay it in ruins. . . . -</p> - -<p> -Tragic thoughts. But they could not depress the ardent Annette. It is -the inspiration within that gives joy or sadness, not ideas. Under an -untroubled sky an anæmic soul perishes of melancholy. A vigorous soul, -exposed to storms, wraps itself as happily in shadows as in sunlight. It -knows quite well that they alternate. Annette came home sometimes -crushed with fatigue and the feeling of a dark future. She would go to -bed and sleep; in the middle of the night some ridiculous dream would -wake her up laughing. Or, more often, in the evening, as she sat with -her brow bent over her work and the fingers followed their path, her -brain, following its path in turn, would suddenly pick up some absurd -thought and she would be full of merriment. She had to take care not to -laugh too loudly in order not to awaken Marc. "I'm an idiot," she said, -as she dried her eyes. But her heart was lightened. These childish -relaxings, these sudden reactions, were a wholesome heritage that came -to her from her family. When the heart is full of clouds, the wind of -joy rises and drives them away. -</p> - -<p> -No, she had no need of distractions, books. Annette had enough to read -in herself. And the most thrilling of books was her son. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XXIV">XXIV</a></h4> - -<p> -He was approaching his seventh year. He had adjusted himself to the -change of his surroundings much more readily than might have been -expected. Disagreeable or not, it was a change. He had cast his skin -like a little snake. Ungrateful childhood! All Sylvie's indulgences and -all her petting—she was so certain of her power over him!—were -as if they had never been. After forty-eight hours he no longer even -thought of them. -</p> - -<p> -What pleases or displeases a child is never what you expect. The first -thing Marc appreciated in his new life was the school whither his mother -sent him pityingly—and the hours of solitude when there was nobody to -watch him. -</p> - -<p> -Annette had established herself in a little apartment on the fifth floor -on the populous Rue Monge. A steep stairway, small rooms, noise from -without; but there was space above the roofs, and she needed this. The -noise did not disturb her; she was a Parisian, accustomed to movement; -it was almost necessary to her; she could think all the better in the -midst of the hurly-burly. Perhaps her nature had also been transformed -with maturity: the plenitude of physical life and regular work had given -her a poise, a nervous solidity, which she had never known, but which -would not endure forever. -</p> - -<p> -The apartment consisted, on the street side, of Annette's bedroom, which -served as a sitting-room (the bed formed a divan), Marc's little room, -and a narrow recess, a sort of corner-closet. Across the passage, which -was dark at midday, was the dining-room over the court and a kitchen -that was practically filled by the stove and the sink. -</p> - -<p> -Between the mother's room and that of the child the door remained open, -and Marc was too small to protest. He was at the undecided age that -floats between the sexlessness of early infancy and the first uncertain -awakening of the little man. He was no longer in the one stage and not -yet in the other. He would still run from his own bed to his mother's on -Sunday morning; and on great days he would allow her to dress him from -head to foot. On other days he would have fits of rudeness and shyness. -And he was full of curiosity also. Especially he had attacks of -secretiveness which he did not wish to have disturbed. He would slyly -shut his door. Annette would open it again. He could not make a movement -that she did not hear. It was unbearable! So he wouldn't move at all. -Then she would forget him for a little while. Not for long! . . . -</p> - -<p> -Happily, Annette was not always there. She had to go out. Marc went to -his school, which was not far away. Annette took him there in the -morning, and when she was free (rarely) in the afternoon. But she could -not come for him to take him home again, for this was the hour of her -lessons. He had to come home alone, and this made her anxious. She had -tried to arrange with a neighboring family for the servant to bring Marc -home when she brought their child. But this did not suit Marc, and he -slipped away beforehand. So, proud and timorous, he would come back -alone and all alone shut himself up in the apartment. Good times till -his mother's return! Annette scolded him for his independence. But -although she would never have admitted to herself that she had this evil -feeling, she was not too sorry that he should be able to get along -without comrades. She distrusted comrades. She did not want anyone to -spoil her son. . . . Her son! Was she quite sure that he was hers? Of -course she made an effort to repress her egotistical love. No longer, as -in the days when he was very small, did she feel the blind, gluttonous -need of absorbing the little being in her passion. She saw in him now a -personality. But she persuaded herself that she had the key of this -personality, that she knew better than he its laws and its happiness; -she wanted to carve it in the image of her secret God. Believing, like -most mothers, that she was incapable of creating what she desired -herself, she dreamed of creating it through him who had sprung from her -blood. (That eternal dream, eternally frustrated, of Wotan!) -</p> - -<p> -But in order to shape him, she had to catch him. Not let him escape! She -did everything to envelop him. Too much. Every day he escaped more. She -had the discouraging impression that every day she knew him less. One -thing she knew well: his body, his physical health, his illnesses, the -least symptoms. She had an intuition that never deceived her. She would -hold him before her, bathe him, touch him, care for him . . . this dear -fragile body of the little hermaphrodite. He looked transparent. But -what was inside him? She devoured him with her eyes and her hands; he -was entirely at her mercy. -</p> - -<p> -"Heavens, how I love you, little monster! And do you love me?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, Mamma," he replied politely. -</p> - -<p> -But what was he thinking in his heart? -</p> - -<p> -At seven Marc had scarcely a feature of his family. In vain had Annette -explored him, sought for some resemblance, tried to imagine one. . . . -No, he was not like her, either in the shape of his forehead, or in his -eyes, or in that swelling of the lips, so characteristic of the -Rivières, and especially of Annette, as if the will, the inner ardor, -had expanded them. The only point in common was the color of the iris, -and this was lost in a strange world. . . . What world? . . . The -father's? The Brissots'? Scarcely. At least, not yet. Jealously Annette -said, "Never!" -</p> - -<p> -And yet would she have been so displeased to find some trace of Roger in -her son's features? Would it not have given her an obscure pleasure? She -remembered the man to whom she had given herself with a mixture of -bitterness and unconfessed attraction—an attraction less for the real -Roger than for him of whom she had dreamed. In fact, it was to this -dream that she had given herself. If she had seen him again in the image -of her son, she would have had a strange feeling of victory, the feeling -that she had wrested from him this form she loved in order to animate it -with her own soul. Yes, as long as Marc's spirit was like her own, she -would have been glad to find Roger's features in him. -</p> - -<p> -But he resembled neither Roger nor herself. Roger's face, which lacked -the original expression of the Rivières, had a simple, regular beauty -of line: it was an easy book to read. But this child's face, the meaning -of this expression . . . how describe it? It was so fleeting. . . . -</p> - -<p> -Pretty, delicate features, but not well proportioned, the narrow brow, -the effeminate chin, eyes a little aslant, the nose—whose did it -resemble, this long, tapering, finely arched nose?—and the wide, thin -mouth with pale, slightly crooked lips? . . . Even when he was motionless -he seemed to be moving; his air was uncertain and changing. . . . No -doubt he was seeking for his form: he was still fluctuating, but -in what direction would he decide to go? Or would he decide not to have -any direction? -</p> - -<p> -Since his serious illness, he had been a child who at a first glance -would have been called nervous and impressionable (as perhaps he was). -But as you watched him, he disconcerted you with his calm ways, his air -of indifference, his reserved expression. Not disagreeable, not sulky, -not saying no. . . . "Yes, Mamma." . . . But you saw at once that he was -not paying any attention to what you said. He had not heard it. . . . Or -had he heard it? It was hard to be sure. . . . And he looked at his -mother to see what was going to happen next, and she looked at him. . . . -The little sphinx! . . . All the more a sphinx because he didn't know -that he was one. He knew no more about himself than Annette knew about -him, though this was the last thing to cause him any anxiety. When you -are seven you have ceased trying to understand yourself and have not yet -begun to do so again. On the other hand, he was trying to understand -her, his mistress and servant. And he had the time for this because she -shut him up with herself for days together. They observed one another -mutually. But she was no match for him. -</p> - -<p> -Annette deceived herself in thinking that he did not resemble any one -she knew. There were astonishing similarities between his spirit and -that of his grandfather Rivière. But Annette, though this occurred to -her, had known very little about her father. He had charmed her so much -that she had never seen the real Raoul Rivière. She had merely had a -few suspicions, especially since she had read the famous correspondence. -She had not wanted to dwell on this. Even if she had to bolster them up, -she preferred to keep the pious and tender memories that had been -momentarily shaken. Besides, she had only known the Raoul of the last -phase. But if old Rivière had been able to return and inspect the -little love-child, as he would have known so well how to do, he would -have said, "I am beginning again." -</p> - -<p> -He was not beginning again. Nothing ever begins again. He had merely -come back in certain details. -</p> - -<p> -What mischievous tricks blood plays! Over Annette's head the two -confederates shook hands. And one of the most striking traits which the -frank Annette had transmitted from the grandfather to the grandchild was -a remarkable aptitude for dissembling. Not through any need to deceive. -Raoul Rivière had enough good-natured contempt for his contemporaries -and felt strong enough never to have any fear of showing himself, when -it pleased him, quite without disguise. (It had often pleased him, and -people would quote ferocious words of his that carried all before them.) -No, this was a gratuitous pleasure, a delight in the burlesque, a -theatrical tendency, a malicious taste for concealing his moral identity -in order to mystify people. The child, innocently of course, had -inherited this. His soul, which was still full of inconsistencies and -very heterogeneous, with nothing of the buffoon in its depths, had -slipped at birth into this malicious attitude, and it used the organs -that Nature had made for it. Just as it would have tried its beak, its -claws or its wings if it had passed into the body of a woolly or -feathered animal, so, enveloped as it were in a fold of one of old -Rivière's coats, it revealed once more the wiles of the grandfather. -</p> - -<p> -Marc was guarded in the presence of grown-ups, and he could read in them -everything that concerned him. On that side his faculty of attention was -keen. When he saw what they imagined he was, he became it—at least -unless they irritated him or he wanted to amuse himself and was seized -with the whim of being contrary. -</p> - -<p> -One of his occupations was to take apart the mechanism of these living -playthings, look for their hidden springs, their weak points, try them, -play with them, make them go. This was not very difficult, for they were -stupid and unsuspicious. And first of all, his mother. -</p> - -<p> -She puzzled him. There was something enigmatic about her. He had heard -allusions to this subject in Sylvie's workshop, when he was sitting -under the feet of the working-girls, who were not thinking of him. He -did not understand much of it. But this added to the mystery, and he -interpreted it. Divining, discovering. In this alert little ferret-like -body, motionless, with shining eyes, the mind was always working. -</p> - -<p> -Now that he was shut up with her, often for days, because of his -ill-health, his winter colds and the greedy affection of his mother, she -was his principal resource. He watched her curiously while he sang to -himself, moving about, pursuing his other occupations—for a child's -intelligence, like its body, is lithe and hard to hold. No matter if he -is facing the other way, he sees you with eyes in the back of his head, -and his cat's ears turn like weathercocks at the sound of your voice. If -this all-observing attention chases three or four hares at a time, it -never loses the trail, it amuses itself, it knows very well that -to-morrow it will begin again. . . . The hare allowed herself to be -caught. Expansive, easily carried away, prodigal in her feelings, -Annette was never niggardly. She spent herself without calculation. -</p> - -<p> -At one moment she spoke to him as to a very little child, and she hurt -his feelings: he thought her ridiculous. Again she would speak to him as -to a companion of her thoughts, too old for his age, and she wearied -him: he thought her a bore. Sometimes she let herself think out loud, -carried on a monologue before him, as if he could understand it. Then he -thought her queer, and he watched her with a severe, mocking look. He -did not understand her; but people who do not understand never surrender -their right to judge. -</p> - -<p> -He had adopted an artificial attitude that was convenient for him -because he could apply it to all cases: the impertinent, absent-minded -politeness of a well-brought-up child who appears to listen because he -must, but who is not in the least interested in all these things, who -has his own concerns and, when you speak to him, waits till you have -finished. At other times he amused himself playing at kissing her so as -to give her pleasure. He knew that his mother was nearly bursting with -happiness. The foolish woman responded with all her heart. When she fell -into his snares, he had a sort of affectionate contempt for her. When -she busied herself in a way that he had not foreseen, he was annoyed, -but he had more respect for her. -</p> - -<p> -He was incapable of playing one part very long. A child is too yielding -and is always jumping from one thing to another. A moment after he had -pretended to be so warm-hearted and had enchanted her with his -effusions, he unblushingly betrayed his indifference in the harshest -way. Annette was completely upset. -</p> - -<p> -There came a time when she ceased to be deceived or provoked any longer, -especially at the rare moments when a vague suspicion warned her that -Marc was obstinately posing. Then, nervously and violently—we ask -modern pedagogues to forgive us—she spanked him. Truly she was going -against all good principles and affronting the dignity of her child! -From the point of view of an Anglo-Saxon, poor Annette dishonored -herself forever. But we old French people don't go quite so far as that. -<i>Qui bene amat</i>. . . . The maxim still flourishes in bourgeois -families that have preserved some tincture of Latin. We have all been "well -loved." And at bottom we believe, three-quarters of the time, like -Annette's boy, that we are getting more than our deserts. But it is also -true that if, like him, we continue to love those who spank us, the -spanking results in their losing a little of their prestige. Let us -admit that perhaps it is for this reason that we—Marc and -we—provoke them! -</p> - -<p> -He had a fine time afterwards playing the part of the outraged victim. -And Annette reproached herself for abusing her power. She felt that she -was at fault. She would try to find a way back into his good graces. He -would wait for her to come to him. . . . -</p> - -<p> -The triumph of weakness! It is a weapon that women are expert in -handling. But the most feminine of the two in this case was the child. -This young morsel of flesh, still all bathed in the maternal milk, was -more than half feminine, and it had all the wiles and tricks of a girl. -Annette was disarmed. Beside the little rogue she was the strong sex. -The stupid strong sex, which is ashamed of its strength and tries to win -forgiveness for itself. The contest was not equal. The child made a fool -of her. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XXV">XXV</a></h4> - -<p> -But he was no artful comedian amusing himself. Like his grandfather, he -had more than one nature. Very few had been able to see what lay hidden -beneath the mocking mask of old Rivière, the drama concealed by that -jesting cynicism, that appetite for play-acting which is sometimes -characteristic of conquering spirits. Raoul had had his dark depths -which he never revealed. They exist more often than one might suppose -under the Gallic laugh. One keeps them to oneself. Annette, who had her -own secrets, had never told them to her father, and his secrets she had -known no more than she knew those of her son. They all remained walled -up in their own inner lives. A strange reserve. People blush less at -exposing their vices and their appetites—Raoul had fairly paraded -his—than the tragedy of the soul. -</p> - -<p> -Of this latter Marc had his share. A child who lives alone, without -brothers or companions, has time to wander about these caves of life. -Very deep and vast were the caves of the Rivières. The mother and the -child might have met in them. But they did not see each other; they -passed very close to each other more than once, imagining that they were -very far apart. Both of them, with eyes bandaged, Annette's by the demon -of passion that still held her, the child by the egoism that was natural -to his age—both were in the dark. But Marc as yet was only at the -entrance of the cavern; he was not, like Annette, seeking for the Way -out, bruising himself against the walls; he was crouching on one of the -first steps, dreaming of the future. Incapable of explaining it to -himself, he was building his life. -</p> - -<p> -He had not had to go far to find the redoubtable wall before which the -terrified ego recoils. Death. The wall rose on all sides. Illness -skirted it like an encircling road. It was vain to seek for a passage -through it. The wall was massive and had no breach. It had not been -necessary for any one to tell Marc that the wall was there. Instantly, -in the shadow, he had scented it, like a horse with his mane rising. He -had spoken to no one about it. No one had spoken to him. The whole world -was in agreement on the subject. -</p> - -<p> -Annette, like the young women of to-day, was a bad teacher who, as a -girl, had heard a great deal of talk about teaching, and was not -unwilling to talk about it as a matter of conscience. She attached more -importance to the method of bringing up children than the mothers of -former days who had gone about it blindly. But once the child was there, -she had found herself helpless before the thousand and one surprises of -life, incapable of playing her part, making up theories which she did -not apply, or which she abandoned at the first attempt. In the end she -had let them all go and fallen back upon instinct. -</p> - -<p> -The religious problem was one of those that had troubled her, and she -had not been able to reach any practical solution of it for the child. -Most of the friends of her youth, in the rich, republican bourgeoisie, -had been brought up with religion by their mothers, without religion by -their fathers. They did not even feel the clash of the two conceptions. -(The two get along together very well in the world, like many other -contradictory facts, for neither feeling has a third dimension.) She -herself had gone to church, as she had gone to school: she had taken her -first communion, as she had taken her diploma, conscientiously, without -emotion. The ceremonies at which she had been present in her wealthy -parish seemed to her to belong to the order of the world. She had -separated from them when she separated from the world. -</p> - -<p> -Modern society—and the Church is one of its pillars—has -succeeded so well in denaturing and weakening the great human forces -that Annette, who bore within her a richer faith than that of a hundred -devotees, imagined she was not religious. For she confounded religion -with prayer-wheels and the ceremonies of an obsolete exoticism, a luxury -of soul for the rich, a snare for the eyes and that consolation for the -heart of the poor which assures the foundations of their poverty and of -society. -</p> - -<p> -Since she had given up her religious observances, she had never felt the -need for them. It did not occur to her that when she had her fiery -transports of conscience, her passionate monologues, she was really -saying mass. -</p> - -<p> -She did not think of giving her son what she had gone without herself. -Perhaps the question would not even have occurred to her if, -paradoxically, Sylvie had not brought it up. Sylvie, who had no more -religion than a Parisian sparrow, would not have considered herself -married without the concurrence of the Church; and it seemed to her -indecent that Annette should not have her son baptised. Annette had not -thought of this. But she had it done so that Sylvie might be the -godmother. Then she thought no more of the matter, and things remained -where they were until Julien's arrival. That Julien had a practical -faith did not give Annette one, but it rendered the faith worthy of -respect in her eyes and brought her attention back to the problem she -had neglected. What was she to do for Marc? Send him to church? Teach -him a religion in which she did not believe? She asked Julien, who was -scandalized; he affirmed emphatically that the child had to be -instructed in the divine truths. -</p> - -<p> -"But if they are not truths for me? Must I tell lies when Marc asks me -questions?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, don't tell lies, but allow him to believe. It's for his good." -</p> - -<p> -"No, it couldn't be for his good for me to be dishonest. And what -authority would I have when he found it out? Wouldn't he have the right -to reproach me for it? He would not believe in me any longer. And how do -I know whether this faith he would learn would not thwart his real -development later?" -</p> - -<p> -Here Julien's brow darkened, and Annette hastened to change the subject. -But what was she to do? She could not, as her Protestant friends -advised, give her son a course in all the religions and leave him to -choose for himself when he was sixteen years old. . . . Annette burst -out laughing at this idea. What a strange conception of religion, as if -it were a subject for an examination! -</p> - -<p> -In the end Annette had done nothing. She walked about with Marc, went -into churches, sat down in a corner, marvelled with him at the -upspringing forest of these lofty trunks of stone, the underwood gleams -that filtered through the stained-glass windows, enjoyed the flight of -the vaults, the distant chanting, the vague accompaniment of the organ. -It was a veritable bath of reverie and self-communion. -</p> - -<p> -Marc did not dislike going about in this way, with his hand in his -mother's, listening, whispering. It was sweet, it was warm, it was -delightful. . . . Yes, if it didn't last too long. This sentimental -somnolence bored him. He needed to move about and think of definite -things. His little mind worked away, observed, noticed this crowd of -praying people, watched his mother, who did not pray. And without -expressing them he made his own reflexions. He asked few questions, much -fewer than most children would have asked, for he was very proud and he -was afraid of saying something naïve. -</p> - -<p> -But he did ask, "Mother, who is God?" -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know, my dear," she replied. -</p> - -<p> -"Then what do you know?" -</p> - -<p> -She smiled and pressed him against her. "I know that I love you." -</p> - -<p> -Yes, the old story. He knew this, but it was not worth coming to church -for. -</p> - -<p> -He was not very sensitive and he had no taste for the vague soulfulness -in which "these women" delighted. Annette, when she had her child beside -her, when she was without too many material cares, during an hour of -relaxation earned amid the tasks that pursued her, was happy. She did -not have to go very far to find God: he was in her heart. But Marc had -found in his heart nothing but himself, Marc: everything else was mere -foolishness. He had to be clear about things. Just what was this God? -The man up there over the altar, with his girlish petticoat and his -gilded shell? The verger with his staff and his exposed calves? Those -painted-up images—one in each chapel—that grinned at you with -their sickly smiles like embarrassed ladies whom he didn't like? -</p> - -<p> -"Mamma, let's go on." -</p> - -<p> -"But isn't this beautiful?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, it's beautiful enough. Let's go home." -</p> - -<p> -What was God? . . . He no longer insisted on asking his mother. When -grown-ups confess that they do not know something, it is because they -are not interested in it. . . . He continued his rather impatient -inquiry alone. He heard prayers, "Our Father who art in heaven"—a -localization that excited the scepticism of the more wide-awake of these -modern cubs for whom heaven was on the point of becoming a new field of -sport. He thumbed the Bible, along with other old stories, with a bored -curiosity, asked a few questions, caught a few replies, here and there, -with a negligent air—"God, some invisible person who created the -world." That was what they said. It was too far off. And not clear. He -was like his mother: God did not interest him. One king more or -less. . . . -</p> - -<p> -But what did interest him was his own existence, and what threatened it, -and what was going to happen to it afterwards. Some dull conversations -with Sylvie that had taken place in his presence had very early aroused -his attention. The shivering pleasure with which these girls spoke of -accidents, sudden deaths, sicknesses, burials, chattering all the -time! . . . Death excited them. The animal instinct of the child bristled -at this word. He would have liked to question his mother about it. But -Annette, who was very healthy, never spoke of death and never thought -about it, at this period of her life. She had plenty of other things to -do! Earning the little boy's living. When, from morning till evening, -she had to think of the here and now, the beyond seemed a luxury. It -only becomes essential when those one loves have passed to the other -side. Her son was here. For the rest, if she lost him neither life nor -death would have had any value for her. She was too passionate to be -satisfied with an immaterial world, a world without a beloved body. -</p> - -<p> -Marc saw her, vigorous, intrepid, busy, heedless of these fears; and he -would have been ashamed to betray his weakness. So he was obliged to -help himself alone. This was not easy. But, as one may suppose, the -child did not embarrass himself with problems of complicated thought. He -reduced the question to its proper dimensions. Death meant the -disappearance of others. Let them disappear: that was their affair. But -was it possible that he might disappear? -</p> - -<p> -Once he overheard Sylvie say, "Oh, well, we're all going to die. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -He asked, "I too?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh," she laughed, "you have time enough." -</p> - -<p> -"How much?" -</p> - -<p> -"Till you are old." -</p> - -<p> -But he knew very well that they buried children too. Besides, even if he -were old he would still be himself. Some day Marc would die. . . . It -was terrifying. Was there no possible means of escaping it? Somewhere he -must find something like a nail in a wall, something he could cling to, -a hand he could grasp. "I don't want to disappear." -</p> - -<p> -The need of this hand might have led him to God, as it leads so many -others, this outstretched hand that men in their anguish see projected -into the night. But that his mother did not seem to be looking for this -support was enough to drive away his thought. Even while criticising -Annette, he felt the influence of her attitude. That in spite of what -was awaiting her she could remain calm did not reassure him, but it -obliged him to stand as straight as she did. No matter if he was a -nervous, puny little boy, rather stubborn, he was not Annette's child -for nothing. . . . Since she, a woman, is not afraid, I must not be -afraid. -</p> - -<p> -But it was not given to him, as it was given to these grown-ups, not to -think about it. Thought comes and goes; you cannot keep it down, -especially at night, when you cannot sleep. Well, then, he had to think -of it and not be afraid: "What is it like to be dead?" -</p> - -<p> -Naturally he had no means of knowing. Save for a few pictures in the -museum, he had been spared every kind of funereal spectacle. Stiff in -his little bed, he felt the walls of his body. How could he find out? An -imprudent word revealed to him, quite close by, a window that opened on -the abyss into which he burned to look. -</p> - -<p> -One summer day he was dawdling by the window. He caught some flies and -was pulling off their wings. It amused him to see them floundering -about. It did not occur to him that he was doing them any harm; he was -playing a game. They were living toys, and it made no difference if he -broke them. . . . His mother surprised him at this occupation. With the -violence that she was unable to repress, she seized him by the shoulders -and shook him, exclaiming that he was a disgusting little coward. -</p> - -<p> -"What would you say if someone broke your arms? Don't you know that -these creatures suffer just as you do?" -</p> - -<p> -He pretended to laugh, but he was astounded by this. It had not occurred -to him. These creatures were like him! He did not feel the least pity -for them. But he looked at them now with other eyes, troubled, -attentive, hostile. . . . A fallen horse in the street. . . . A howling -dog that had been run over. . . . He watched. . . . The need of knowing -was too strong for his pity to be awakened. . . . -</p> - -<p> -At Easter, as the child, after a gray, damp winter that had been neither -cold nor sunny, had suffered from a mild, but insidious, attack of -influenza that had drained all the color from his cheeks, Annette rented -for a fortnight a room in a farmhouse in the valley of Bièvres. It -contained only one big bed for herself and the child. He did not like -this very much: but she had not asked for his advice. Happily, he was -alone during the day; Annette went back to Paris for her work, and she -left him in the care of the landlady, who paid very little attention to -him. Marc would quickly vanish into the fields. He looked around him, -rummaged about, tried to grasp, from animals and things, some secret -that concerned him; for everything in nature he related to himself. -Wandering through the woods, he heard some boys making a noise in the -distance. He was not looking for the company of other children; he was -not strong enough, and he would have wanted to dominate them. But he was -attracted just the same. He approached and saw that there were four or -five of them forming a circle about a wounded cat. The animal's back was -broken, and the children were amusing themselves poking it, tormenting -it, prodding it with the ends of their sticks. Without stopping to -think, Marc threw himself into the group and struck about him with his -fists. When the surprise was over, the band fell upon him shouting. He -beat a retreat, but he remained a few steps away, hidden behind some -bushes, and stopped his ears. He could not make up his mind to -leave. . . . He returned. The young scoundrels hailed him with jeers, -"Hello, skinny! Are you afraid? Come over here and see him croak!" -</p> - -<p> -He came. He did not want to seem a milksop. Besides, he wanted to see. -The animal, with its eyes glazed and half torn away, was lying on its -side, its hindquarters rigid, already dead; its chest was panting and -its head trying to lift itself while it moaned in distress. It could not -die. The children were convulsed with laughter. Marc looked at it, -petrified. Then suddenly he seized a stone and struck with it furiously -at the creature's head. A raucous cry broke from him. He struck, struck -harder, like a madman. He was still striking when all was over. . . . -</p> - -<p> -The boys looked at him, embarrassed. One of them tried to make a joke. -With blood on the fingers that were still grasping the stone, Marc, -pale, with knitted brows, a wicked look in his eye and a trembling lip, -stared at them. They went away. He heard them laughing and singing in -the distance. Setting his teeth, he walked home, and once at home he -said nothing about it. But at night, in bed, he cried. Annette took him -into her arms. The soft body was trembling. -</p> - -<p> -"What is this wicked dream? My angel, it's nothing." -</p> - -<p> -He was thinking, "I killed it. I know what death is." -</p> - -<p> -The terrifying pride of knowing, of having seen and destroyed! And -another feeling, which he could not comprehend, a feeling of horror and -attraction. . . . The strange bond that unites the slayer and the slain, -the fingers daubed with blood and the broken head. . . . To which -of the two did the blood belong? . . . The animal was no longer -suffering. . . . He still felt its last agonies. . . . -</p> - -<p> -Happily, at this age, the mind cannot cling very long to the same -thought. It would have been dangerous if this had become a fixed idea. -But other images passed and their current refreshed his brain. The idea -remained, however, in the depths of him: its presence betrayed itself, -from time to time, in sombre gleams, bubbles of air that slowly mounted -from the mud of the brook. Under the soft crust of his nature a hard -core was hidden: death, the force that kills. . . . I am killed and I -kill. . . . I will not let myself be killed! Victory to the strongest! -I shall fight! -</p> - -<p> -Pride, an obscure pride that sustains its weakness, like a suit of -armor. Whence did this steel come if not from his mother—the mother -for whom he felt contempt nevertheless because of her effusiveness and -because he wound her around his finger? He was not unaware of it. Even -in the days when his preference had been all for Sylvie, who petted him, -he had recognized Annette's superiority. And he may have imitated her. -But he had to defend himself against the encroachments of this -personality who loved him too much, who got in his way and threatened -his life. He remained in arms against her, and held her at a distance. -She too was the enemy. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XXVI">XXVI</a></h4> - -<p> -Sylvie had disappeared from the horizon. When the first months of -resentment were past, she had a certain feeling of remorse as she -thought of the difficulties against which her sister was struggling. She -was waiting for Annette to come and ask her for help: she would not have -refused it, but she was not going to offer it. But rather than ask for -it Annette would have allowed herself to be cut to pieces. The two -sisters were at swords' points. They had seen each other in the street -and avoided each other. But once when Annette had met little Odette with -one of the workers, she had not resisted an affectionate impulse; she -had taken the child in her arms and devoured her with kisses. On her -side, Sylvie, seeing Marc passing one day on his way home from -school—he appeared not to see her—stopped him and said, "Well, -don't you recognize me any more?" -</p> - -<p> -One can imagine the high and mighty manner this little animal assumed as -he said, "Good afternoon, aunt." -</p> - -<p> -All by himself he had made his little reflexions, and, just or unjust, -he had thought it best to identify himself with his mother's cause. "My -country, right or wrong." Sylvie was completely taken aback. She asked, -"Well, are things going as they should?" -</p> - -<p> -He replied coldly, "Everything is going very well." -</p> - -<p> -She watched him as he walked stiffly off, blushing from the effort he -had imposed on himself. He was neat and nicely dressed. . . . The mean -little thing! "Everything is going very well." She could have boxed his -ears. -</p> - -<p> -That Annette could manage her own affairs without her added to Sylvie's -indignation. But she lost no opportunity to hear about her, and she did -not give up the idea of lording it over her some day. If she could not -do so actually, she could at least do so in thought. She was not unaware -of the austere life which her sister led; and she did not understand why -Annette condemned herself to it. She knew her well enough to be aware -that a woman of her type was not made for this moral restraint, this -joyless life. How could she force her nature in this way? What obliged -her to live like a widow? In the absence of a husband she had no lack of -friends who would be happy to lighten her troubles. If she had agreed to -this, Sylvie would perhaps have respected her sister less, but she would -have felt closer to her. -</p> - -<p> -She was not the only one who did not understand Annette. Annette -understood hardly any better herself the reasons for her monastic life, -the fierce dread that led her to draw back, not merely from the -possibility, but from the mere idea of one of those natural pleasures -that no religious or social law could have prevented her from enjoying. -(She did not believe in the morality of the Church, and was she not -mistress of herself?) -</p> - -<p> -"What am I afraid of?" -</p> - -<p> -"Of myself." -</p> - -<p> -Her instinct did not deceive her. For such a nature, filled with -passions, desires, blind sensuality, there is no such thing as innocent -pleasure, there is no play without consequences. The least shock would -deliver her over to forces of which she was no longer the mistress. She -had known long before the moral perturbation caused by her brief, -passing encounters with love. The dangers would be very different to-day! -She would no longer resist. If she gave herself up to pleasure, she -would be utterly swept away by it; she would lose the faith she -needed. . . . What faith? Faith in herself. Pride? No. Faith in that -inexplicable, that divine something that was within her and that she -wanted to transmit unsullied to her son. Such a woman has no choice, -outside the strict discipline of marriage, between an absolute moral -restraint and the frankest abandonment to her passionate instincts. -Everything or nothing. . . . Nothing! -</p> - -<p> -And yet, at moments—in spite of her transports of proud -fervor—for several months this agonizing thought gripped her by -the throat: -</p> - -<p> -"I am wasting my life." -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Marcel Franck reappeared. Chance threw him in Annette's path; he had -ceased to think of her, but he had not forgotten her. He had had a -number of amorous adventures. They had not left too many marks on his -flexible heart—only a few lines, like fine scratches, about his -clever eyes. But they had left him with a certain fatigue, a good-natured -contempt for his easy conquests and for the conqueror. Scarcely had he -caught sight of Annette than he felt again the old sensation of -freshness and certitude that strangely attracted this blasé sceptic. He -explored her eyes; she too had seen life! In the depths of her glance -there were submerged lights, paths where vessels had been, shipwrecks. -But she seemed calmer and more assured. And he again regretted this -wholesome companion who had already escaped him twice. He was not too -late! Never had they seemed more ready to understand each other. -</p> - -<p> -Without questioning her, he was able to find out in his own circumspect -way about her resources and her occupations. A little later he offered -her some work that was very well remunerated: it consisted in arranging -notes for the catalogue of a private collection of works of art of which -he had charge. A natural excuse for spending a few hours each week with -her. They were able to work and talk at the same time. The intimacy of -the past was soon reëstablished. -</p> - -<p> -Marcel never asked Annette about her life, but he talked about himself. -This was the best way of finding out what she thought. The comic side of -his love affairs offered a variety of subjects in which he delighted. He -enjoyed making Annette his amused confidante, although she scolded him a -little. He was the first to make fun of himself, as he made fun of -everything; and she laughingly listened to his free confessions, for she -was very tolerant where she herself was not concerned. He understood -this to mean something else, and it gave him pleasure to see this gay -intelligence that was so indulgent to life. He no longer found in her -any trace of the moral pedantry, the intolerance of the young girl who -is rather circumscribed by her virtue. While they exchanged their -ironical reflexions, it occurred to him that it would be charming to -form an attachment with this witty friend, to share with her the -adventure of life. How? In any way she chose. Mistress, wife, as she -wished. He had no prejudices. Just as he had attached no importance to -Annette's "blossoming maternity," so he was not concerned with any -encounters she might have had since then. He would never torment her -with any exacting surveillance; he had no curiosity about her secret -life. Let every one have his own secrets and his share of liberty! He -only asked that in their life together she should be laughing and -intelligent, a good comrade of his interests and pleasures. (And in -pleasure he included everything, intelligence, affection and the rest.) -</p> - -<p> -He thought so well of this that he spoke to her about it one evening in -the library when they had finished their work and the sun, through the -trees of an old garden, was gilding the tawny bindings of the books. -Annette was completely surprised. What, he had come back to that; it was -not finished? "Oh, my friend," she said, "how kind you are! But it can't -be thought of any more." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, yes, it can be thought of," he said. "Why shouldn't it be?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, really, why not?" Annette said to herself. "I'm glad to talk to -him, to see him. But, no, it's impossible! It cannot even be discussed." -</p> - -<p> -Franck sat facing her on the other side of the table, his blond beard in -the sunlight. With his two arms on the table, he took Annette's hands -and said, "Think about it for five minutes! . . . There . . . I shall -say nothing. . . . We have known each other for how many years? . . . -Twelve? . . . Fifteen? . . . I don't need to explain myself. Everything -I can say you know." -</p> - -<p> -She did not try to disengage her hands; she smiled and looked at him. -Her clear eyes were fixed upon him and yet did not see him because they -had already gone beyond him. She was looking into herself. She thought, -"This is not even to be discussed? Everything should be discussed! Why -is it impossible? He doesn't displease me. He is a handsome fellow, -attractive, good enough, intelligent, agreeable. How easy life would -be! . . . But I could not live his life with him. He is pleasant, and -everything pleases him. But he respects nothing, men, women, love or -Annette. . . ." (It was she who was speaking, for she saw herself from -outside.) "He is certainly not ungenerous so far as delicate attentions -and social respect are concerned. He gives them to me in good measure. -Perhaps he even treats me with special favor. . . . But what a complete -sceptic! Is there anything he takes seriously? He delights in his -absolute lack of faith in human nature. He discounts its weaknesses with -a complacent and sympathetic curiosity. I think he would be disappointed -if the day came when he was obliged to respect it. A good soul! Yes, -life would be easy with him—so easy that I should no longer have any -reason to live." -</p> - -<p> -Beyond that she no longer put her thought into words. But the thought -pursued her, and her mind was made up. -</p> - -<p> -Franck had let her hands drop. He felt that his cause was lost. He got -up and walked to the window, and with his back to the window-pane he -philosophically lighted a cigarette. He was behind Annette; he saw her -motionless, her arms stretched over the table, as if he were still in -front of her. Her beautiful blond neck and her round shoulders. . . . -Lost! . . . For whom, for what, was she keeping herself? Some new -Brissot-foolishness? No, he knew that Annette's heart was free. Well, -then? She was not cold. She needed to love and be loved! -</p> - -<p> -Above all, she needed to believe. . . . To believe in what she did, in -what she wanted, in what she was seeking, in what she was dreaming, to -believe in what she was, in spite of all disgusts and disappointments, -to believe in herself and in life! Franck destroyed respect. Annette -could more easily endure not being respected than losing respect—her -own—for life. For this is the source of energy. And without the -strength to act, Annette would have been nothing. For her the passivity -of happiness was death. The essential distinction between human beings -consists in this, that some are active, the rest passive. And of all the -forms of passivity, the most mortal for Annette would have been that of -a mind tranquilly established, like Franck's, in the comfort of a doubt -that no longer recognized doubt, but voluptuously surrendered itself to -the indifferent stream of nothingness. Suicide! No, she refused that. -Then what did she think her life would be? Perhaps nothing very happy or -very complete. Perhaps it would utterly miss fire. But whether it missed -or not, it would be an effort towards an end. . . . Unknown? Illusory? -Perhaps. No matter! The effort was not illusory. . . . And let me fall -by the wayside so long as it is <i>my</i> wayside! -</p> - -<p> -She became aware of the long silence and realized that Franck was no -longer there. She turned, saw him, smiled, rose and said, "Forgive me, -my friend! Let us remain as we are. It is so good to be friends!" -</p> - -<p> -"And not better otherwise?" -</p> - -<p> -She shook her head. "No!" -</p> - -<p> -"Well," he said, "here I am blackballed at the third examination!" -</p> - -<p> -She laughed and, going to him, said mischievously: "Would you like at -least to have what I refused you at the second examination?" And putting -her arm about his neck she kissed him. An affectionate kiss. But there -was no mistaking it—the kiss of a friend. -</p> - -<p> -Franck was not deceived by it. "Well," he said, "let me hope that in -twenty years I shall be admitted." -</p> - -<p> -"No," said Annette, laughing. "There's an age-limit! Marry, my friend. -You have only to choose. All the women are waiting for you." -</p> - -<p> -"But not you." -</p> - -<p> -"I'm going to remain a bachelor-girl." -</p> - -<p> -"You'll see, you'll see. For your punishment you will marry when you are -over fifty." -</p> - -<p> -"<i>Frère, il faut mourir.</i>' Before then." -</p> - -<p> -"Until then, the life of a nun." -</p> - -<p> -"You don't know what delights it has." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XXVII">XXVII</a></h4> - -<p> -Annette was bragging. It was not all delightful. She often felt cramped -in her cloistered life. She was the kind of nun who would not have found -it too much to have an abbey to manage and a God to love. The abbey was -reduced to a fifth-floor apartment and God to her child. This was very -little and yet it was immense. It was not what she was meant for, but -she made a great deal of it. All her dreams turned round it, and with -this sort of treasure she was well provided. If her everyday life was -apparently puritanical and poor, she had her revenge in the life of her -imagination. There, soundlessly and without friction, the eternal -"enchantment" continued to flow. -</p> - -<p> -But how enter these retreats of the soul? The inner dream is not woven -of words. And to make oneself understand, to understand oneself, one -must use words. . . . That heavy, sticky paste which dries on the tips -of the fingers! To understand herself, Annette sometimes felt the need -of securing her dreams by telling them over to herself in a soft voice. -But these recitals were not faithful transcriptions—scarcely -transmutations; they took the place of the dreams without really -resembling them. Lacking the power to seize the spirit in its flight, -the brain makes up stories for itself that keep it busy and deceive it -about the great fairyland, the inner drama. -</p> - -<p> -An immense liquid plain, a flooded valley brimming over, a shoreless -river of fire, water and clouds. All the elements were still mingled -there, a thousand currents as confused as hair on a head; but there was -a force that curled these long dark locks that were spangled with -gleaming lights. It was the countless-faceted Spirit and its troop of -dreams, led by the silent shepherd to the shadowy pastures of Hope: -Desire, the king of the worlds. A resistless gravitation drove them to -the greedy slope, now gentle, now abrupt, that drew them down. -</p> - -<p> -Annette felt the enchanted river flowing; she rolled and unrolled on her -distaff the skein of the entwined currents; she abandoned herself to it -and played with the feline force that carried her on. . . . But when the -reasoning powers were suddenly aroused and wished to control the play, -they found that Annette, torn from her dream, was merely seeking for -another that she might enter. So she soberly invented one out of the -elements of her disciplined days—her memories, figures from the past, -the romance of the life she had already lived or was still to live -perhaps. . . . And Annette tried to make herself believe that the great -dream was pursuing her. She knew it had fled, but she was not troubled. -Like the bridegroom in the Gospel, it would return at an hour that no -man knew. -</p> - -<p> -How many feminine souls there are whose hidden genius expresses itself -like hers in this inner stream! If one could read below the surface one -would often find there dark passions, ecstasies, visions of the abyss. -Yet all one sees is the correct middle-class woman, tranquilly going on -from day to day, attending to her affairs, coolly and sensibly, mistress -of herself and sometimes even, by reaction, assuming as Annette did -before her pupils and her son (though he was never deceived), an almost -excessive appearance of cold, moralistic reasonableness. -</p> - -<p> -No, she did not deceive the child. He had sharp eyes. He was able to -read between the lines. He too knew what dreams were. Every day he had -hours when he was like a king, entirely alone with his dreams, alone in -the apartment. Annette, who was always imprudent, carelessly left at the -disposal of the child a quantity of books, debris from the shipwreck of -her library and that of the grandfather. They were of every sort. For -several years she had not had the leisure to hunt through them. The -little boy took charge of that. Every day, on his return from school, -when his mother was not there, he would set out on the chase. He read at -haphazard. Quite early he had learned to read quickly, very quickly; he -galloped down the slope of the pages, pursuing his quarry. His -school-work suffered from this; he was classed as a poor, -scatter-brained student who never knew his lessons and skimped his -duties. The teacher would have been very much surprised if the little -poacher had recited what his eyes had caught in his game-preserve. He -had even caught the "classics" in his snare, and what a different scent -they had! Everything he gathered freely in this way, in the unknown, had -for him the taste of beautiful forbidden fruit. There was nothing that -could soil him yet in these encounters, nothing that could even -enlighten him too brutally. His eyes passed merrily round dangerous -corners without even seeing the carnal bait in the trap. But, happy and -carefree, he felt the breath of warm life in his face; in this forest of -books his nostrils caught the adventure and the eternal struggle of -love. -</p> - -<p> -Love, what is love for a child of ten? All the happiness one does not -possess, that one will possess—that one is going to seize. . . . What -will it look like? With a few scraps of what he has seen and heard, he -tries to construct its image. He sees nothing. He sees everything. He -desires everything. To possess everything. To love everything. (To be -loved! For him that is the real meaning of love. . . . "I love myself. I -must be loved. . . . But by whom?") His memories give him no aid. They -are too close for him to be able to see them well. At his age there is -no past, or so little of a past. The present is the theme with its -thousand variations. -</p> - -<p> -The present? The child lifts its eyes and sees its mother. About the -round table, under the warm light of the oil lamp, they are sitting -together. Evening, after dinner. Marc is studying—supposed to be -studying—his lessons for to-morrow; Annette is mending a dress. -Neither of them is thinking of what he is doing. They are trusting to their -machines, their willing servants. The dream rolls on. Annette follows -the current. The child observes her as she dreams. . . . That is a more -interesting spectacle than the lessons his lips are repeating. -</p> - -<p> -Marc seemed never to have noticed what was going on about him during -these years; he could not have explained any of his mother's -occupations. Yet nothing had escaped him. Julien's love. Her love for -Julien. He had been obscurely aware of it. And a jealousy of which he -was not conscious made him rejoice, like a little cannibal who dances -about the stake, in the disastrous climax. His mother remained his. His -property! Did he care so much about her? He had only appreciated her -when someone else had wanted her. He looked at her—those eyes, that -mouth, those hands. In the manner of children who lose themselves in a -detail as in a world—and they are not always wrong—he studied -each of her features. One shadow of an eyelid, the curling of a lip, are -mysterious and vast landscapes. They fascinate the mind of the child. -His glance hovered like a bee up and down the half-open mouth. . . . The -red door. . . . It plunged into the depths, it emerged again. Searching -so closely, he forgot what he was looking at, the woman herself. . . . -A stupor full of affection. . . . He roused himself to remember (ugh) -to-morrow's lesson, a boy he disliked, a bad mark he had hidden from his -mother. . . . And then his attention was caught again by the gleam of -the lamp in the shadow of the room, by the silence of the chamber amid the -rumbling of Paris—that sense of a little island, of a ship at sea, -and the expectation of shore, of what he was going to find, what he was -going to carry away on the ship that would be full of his treasures, his -hopes, the spoils of life he was going to capture. Among these he counted -his mother, her beautiful blond hair and her arched eyebrows. . . . The -little Viking! How much he suddenly loved her! With the ardor of -a lover, but one who had kept the gift of divine ignorance! And at -night, lying awake, he listened to her breathing. . . . All this -mysterious life troubled him, absorbed him. . . . -</p> - -<p> -So they both dreamed; but she was in mid-ocean and accustomed to the -long voyage. He was just setting out, and everything was a discovery for -him. And as everything was new to him, he saw with a keener eye, and -often he saw further. He had moments of astonishing seriousness. They -did not last. He was like an animal: suddenly this penetrating glance -would waver. He would not be there any more! But in the moments when he -fastened on his comrade-mother his young new force of attention and -love, shut up with her in a burning silence, his whole being was -impregnated with the odor of this soul: he divined without comprehending -them her faintest tremors, and he touched as if by lightning the secrets -of her heart. -</p> - -<p> -Soon he would lose the key. He would no longer be interested. He would -no longer be able to see. There were two beings in him: the light from -within and the shadow from without. As the body of the child develops, -the shadow increases with it and covers the light. As he climbs, he -turns his back on the sun; he seems most a child when he is least one; -and when he is grown-up, his view is more limited. For the moment Marc -still enjoyed a magic clairvoyance of which he was completely unaware. -Never had he been closer to Annette; not for many years would he be so -close again. -</p> - -<p> -Towards the end of this period the attraction she had for him became -stronger than his distrust. He no longer resisted the impulse that flung -him suddenly, face, eyes and mouth, against his mother's breast. Annette -discovered with rapture that her child loved her. She had given up hope -of this. -</p> - -<p> -Several months passed, as delicious as a mutual first love. The -honeymoon of the child and the mother. The ravishing purity of this -love, carnal as all love is, but carnal without sin. A living rose. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XXVIII">XXVIII</a></h4> - -<p> -It passes. It passes, the matchless hour. They pass, these years of -close intimacy, severe discipline, a crowded life. These rich years. -Annette, with all her strength intact, unimpaired. The child with all -the flower of his little universe. -</p> - -<p> -But a mere vibration of the air will be enough to throw this harmony of -souls into confusion. Is the door shut? -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XXIX">XXIX</a></h4> - -<p> -One Sunday morning Annette was at home alone. Marc was playing ball with -a friend in the Luxembourg Gardens. Annette was doing nothing; she -enjoyed being able to rest without talking, without moving, sitting in -her armchair on this day of rest; the flood of her thoughts followed its -meandering course. A little stiff with weariness, she let herself float -along. Someone knocked. She hesitated to open the door. Disturb this -hour of silence? . . . She did not move. The knock came again; there was -an insistent ring. She rose regretfully. She opened the door. . . . -Sylvie! For months they had not seen each other. . . . Annette's first -movement was one of joy, and Sylvie's face responded to her cordial -expression. Then the memory of their grievances, their strained -relations returned, and they were embarrassed. They exchanged polite -questions, asked about each other's health. They spoke to each other -without any formality, and in both their questions and their replies the -forms of their language were familiar, but their hearts remained cold. -Annette was thinking, "What has she come for?" And Sylvie, if she knew, -did not seem to be in any hurry to say. All the time, while speaking of -this and that, she showed that she was preoccupied with some thought she -was trying to defer, but which at last came out. "Annette," she said -suddenly, "let's put an end to this! There have been mistakes on both -sides." -</p> - -<p> -Annette, in her pride, would not admit that there were any on hers. -Strong, too strong, in her right, and not forgetting the injustice that -had been done her, she said, "There were none on my side." -</p> - -<p> -Sylvie did not like to go halfway and have no one come to meet her. In a -tone of vexation she said, "When you have made mistakes, you should at -least have the courage to recognize them." -</p> - -<p> -"I recognize yours," said Annette, obstinately. -</p> - -<p> -Sylvie was offended and she poured out all her old accumulated -reproaches. Annette replied haughtily. They were on the point of saying -the harshest things to each other. Sylvie impatiently rose to leave, but -she sat down again, saying, "Stupid thing! Nothing will ever make her -admit that she was wrong." -</p> - -<p> -"When it isn't true," said Annette, not budging an inch. -</p> - -<p> -"At least, for politeness' sake, don't make me the only one who has done -wrong!" -</p> - -<p> -They laughed. -</p> - -<p> -They looked at each other now with softened, twinkling eyes. Sylvie made -a wry face at Annette. Annette's eyes were full of amusement. But they -did not lay down their arms. -</p> - -<p> -"Vixen!" said Sylvie. -</p> - -<p> -"I don't admit it," said Annette. "It was you who—" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, let's not begin again. Listen, I am frank; wrong or right, I -would not have come back here just for myself. I can't forget -either—" -</p> - -<p> -In spite of what she had just said, she had again begun to remember -jealously, half in fun, half seriously, with a mixture of bitterness and -humor, that Annette had tried to turn her husband's head. Annette -shrugged her shoulders. -</p> - -<p> -"Well," Sylvie ended by saying, "you may be sure that if it had been -only on my own account I should not have come!" -</p> - -<p> -Annette studied her curiously. Her sister said, "It was Odette who sent -me." -</p> - -<p> -"Odette?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes. She asked why we never saw Aunt Annette any longer." -</p> - -<p> -"Really? She thought of me?" said Annette, astonished. "Who reminded her -of me?" -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know. She saw your photograph in my room. And then you must -have made an impression on her when she met you, I don't know where, on -the street, or in your house perhaps. . . . Intriguer! Looking as if you -weren't interested, with that secretive manner of yours! You know very -well you carry away people's hearts." -</p> - -<p> -(She was only half joking.) -</p> - -<p> -Annette remembered the tender little body she had caught up as she -passed, on that chance encounter, and lifted in her arms, the little -dewy mouth that clung to her cheek. -</p> - -<p> -"Well," Sylvie went on, "I told her that we had quarrelled. She asked -why. I told her to hold her tongue. This morning, in bed, when I came in -to kiss her, she said to me, 'Mamma, I wish you wouldn't be angry with -Aunt Annette.' I said, 'Let me alone.' But she was unhappy. So I kissed -her and said, 'Do you care as much as all that for your aunt? What -difference can it make to you? What an idea! Well, if you care so much -about it, I shan't be angry any more.' She clapped her hands and said, -When will she come?' 'When she wishes.' 'No, I want you to go straight -away now and tell her to come.' So I started out. The little wretch! She -does what she likes with me. . . . Now you must come. We are expecting -you for dinner." -</p> - -<p> -Annette, with lowered eyes, said neither yes nor no. Sylvie was -indignant: "I hope very much you won't have the heart to make me beg -you." -</p> - -<p> -"No," said Annette, lifting radiant eyes that were filled with tears. -</p> - -<p> -They kissed each other passionately, half lovingly, half angrily. Sylvie -bit Annette's ear. Annette cried out, "So you are biting now! Suppose it -were I whom you call crazy. But it's you. Are you angry?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, I am," said Sylvie. "How can you expect me not to hate you? You -steal from me everything I have, my husband, my daughter. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -Annette burst out laughing. "Keep your husband. He means nothing to me." -</p> - -<p> -"Nor to me either," said Sylvie. "But he is mine. I forbid anyone to -touch him." -</p> - -<p> -"Why not put a sign on him?" -</p> - -<p> -"You are the one I should like to put it on, you ugly old thing! . . . -What is it about you that attracts them? They all fall in love with -you." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, no." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, they do. All of them, Odette, that silly Leopold. . . . Other -people. . . . Everybody. . . . And I too! I detest you! I wish I could -get rid of you. But it can't be done. There's no way of shaking you -off!" -</p> - -<p> -They held each other's hands and laughed as they looked at each other, -this time as sisters. -</p> - -<p> -"You silly old thing!" -</p> - -<p> -"You don't realize what a true word that is!" -</p> - -<p> -It was a fact. They had both aged, and they both noticed it. Sylvie -stealthily exhibited a false tooth which she had had made without saying -anything about it. And Annette had a lock of white hair on her temple. -But she did not hide this. -</p> - -<p> -"You poseur!" said Sylvie. -</p> - -<p> -So they were on the best of terms again, just as in the old days. And to -think that without the little girl they would never have seen each other -again! -</p> - -<p> -That evening Annette, with Marc, went to dinner. Odette had hidden -herself: they could not find her. Annette set about looking for her; she -discovered her behind a big curtain. Stooping to pick her up, as she -crouched on her heels, calling her pet names, she held out her arms to -the child. The little girl turned her head to one side, unwilling to -look at her; then there was an explosion; she threw herself on Annette's -neck. At table, where she had the happiness to be placed beside her -aunt, she remained tongue-tied: she was overcome by what had happened. -At the very end she took an interest in the dessert. They drank to their -restored friendship, and as a joke Leopold offered a toast to the future -marriage of Marc and Odette. Marc was annoyed by this; his ambitions -were loftier. But Odette took it seriously. After dinner the two -children tried to play together, but they did not understand each other. -Marc was contemptuous, Odette was mortified. The parents, as they -talked, heard slaps and tears. They separated the combatants. Both were -sulking. Odette was unnerved by the emotions of the day. She had to go -to bed, and she crossly refused to do so. But Annette suggested carrying -her in her arms, and the child allowed herself to be taken. Annette -undressed her and put her in bed, kissing her plump little legs. Odette -was in ecstasy. Annette stayed by her till she was asleep—which was -not long. Then, finding Marc on Sylvie's knees, she said to her sister, -"How would you like to make an exchange of the children?" -</p> - -<p> -"All right!" said Sylvie. -</p> - -<p> -In the bottom of their hearts neither of them would have exchanged. Marc -might have suited Sylvie better, and Odette might have suited Annette. -But neither would have been "her own." -</p> - -<p> -The children were much more ready to accommodate themselves to an -exchange. They had heard it spoken of jokingly and they clamored for it. -To please them it was arranged. On Saturday evening the exchange took -place between the two mothers. Odette spent Saturday night and all day -Sunday at Annette's, and Marc at Sylvie's; on Sunday evening they were -restored to their rightful owners. In the interregnum they were -scandalously spoiled, and naturally enough they returned home grumbling. -Their tenderest affections they had reserved for the one who was not -their everyday mother. -</p> - -<p> -Odette enchanted Annette by her fondling ways, her little confidences, -her endless prattle. Annette had been deprived of this. Marc had the -passionate temperament of his mother, but he knew better how to repress -it; he did not like to surrender himself, especially to those who were -closest to him, for they abused his confidence. With strangers it was -less dangerous, for they misunderstood you anyway. Odette, like Sylvie, -had endearing, expansive ways, but she had a very loving heart; she said -out loud what Annette longed to hear. When the sly little creature -perceived this, she doubled the dose; she awakened the echo of what -Annette had thought as a child. At least, Annette imagined this, and she -loved her partly because of this suggestion. Listening to her, she -dreamed of her own early years which she unconsciously falsified, for -she threw into them the burning clearness of her thoughts of to-day. -</p> - -<p> -These blessed Sunday mornings! The little girl lay in the big bed. (It -was a holiday for her to spend the night nestling in the arms of her -aunt, who received the thumps from her feet without flinching and was -afraid to breathe lest she should awaken her.) She watched Annette -dressing; she chattered like a sparrow. She was sole mistress of the -bed, and, having affirmed her possession of it, she stretched across it -and carried on while her aunt's back was turned. But Annette, arranging -her hair before the mirror, laughed as she saw in its depths the little -bare legs in the air and the rough brown head on the pillow. This -attitude did not prevent Odette from following each of her gestures and -making comic observations on her toilet. Amid her prattle the child made -grave reflexions that were most unexpected and irrelevant and made -Annette prick up her ears: "What did you say? Say it again." -</p> - -<p> -She could not remember. . . . So she made up something else, not as good -as the first thing she had said. Or, more often, she was seized with a -sudden transport of affection. -</p> - -<p> -"Aunt Annette! Aunt Annette!" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, what is it?" -</p> - -<p> -"I love you. . . . Heavens and earth, how I love you!" -</p> - -<p> -Annette laughed at the energy she put into it. -</p> - -<p> -"Impossible!" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I love you madly!" -</p> - -<p> -(For, sincere as she was, she was also a born actress.) -</p> - -<p> -"Nonsense! I like it better without the madness." -</p> - -<p> -"Aunt Annette, I want to hug you!" -</p> - -<p> -"Just a minute." -</p> - -<p> -"Right away. I want to. Come here, come here!" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes." -</p> - -<p> -She calmly finished combing her hair. -</p> - -<p> -Odette turned over in bed in a pet, throwing the bedclothes in all -directions. -</p> - -<p> -"Ah, that woman has no heart." -</p> - -<p> -Annette burst out laughing, dropped her comb, ran to the bed. -</p> - -<p> -"Little masquerader, where did you pick that up?" -</p> - -<p> -Odette hugged her furiously. -</p> - -<p> -"Come, come, you're suffocating me. See, you've pulled my hair down -again. I shall never manage to get dressed to-day. You monster, I don't -want to have anything more to do with you!" -</p> - -<p> -The little girl's voice became anxious; she was on the point of crying. -</p> - -<p> -"Aunt Annette! Love me! . . . I want you to love me! I implore you to -love me!" -</p> - -<p> -Annette pressed her in her arms. -</p> - -<p> -"Ah," said Odette, with a pathetic accent, "I would give my blood for -you!" (A phrase from some newspaper serial she had heard read in the -workroom.) -</p> - -<p> -When Marc was a witness of these effusions, he pouted disdainfully; and, -with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders raised, he marched off, -assuming a superior air. He despised this babbling, this feminine -sentimentality that poured everything out. As he declared to one of his -small friends, "These women are silly." -</p> - -<p> -At bottom, he was annoyed by the signs of affection that his mother -lavished on Odette. When he was the object of them, he repulsed them; -but it did not please him to have someone else get the benefit of them. -</p> - -<p> -Of course, he had his aunt, and with her he could take his revenge. In -fact, he did take it. To punish his mother's ingratitude he was ten -times more lovable with Sylvie than Annette had ever seen him. But it -must be admitted that, although Sylvie petted him, he was disappointed. -Sylvie treated him as a child, and he could not endure it. He did not -like her to imagine that she gave him pleasure by taking him every -Sunday to the cake-shop. He was certainly not indifferent to the cake, -but he did not like to have anyone insult him by believing that he -attached any importance to it. Besides, he felt too much that his aunt -regarded him as a personage of no importance: she was entirely -unreserved with him, and, while Marc's curiosity was satisfied, his -self-esteem was not. For he noticed the difference. It would have -pleased him if Sylvie had taken him into her private life, not as a boy, -but as a real man. In short, although he would not have admitted it to -himself, he lost his illusions when he saw Sylvie at close range. The -careless girl never suspected for a moment what was going on in the pure -and troubled brain of the ten-year-old boy, the fabulous image he had -manufactured of woman, and the shock of his first discoveries. Sylvie -took no more account of her acts and her talk in his presence than she -would have done before some pet animal. (We have no evidence, after all, -that a pet animal is not often shocked.) Through an instinct of defence -against the disillusionments which the damaging of his idol caused him, -there unfortunately developed in him certain precocious ideas that were -quite naïvely cynical, ideas upon which it is better not to dwell. He -tried to appear (in his own eyes; for the present he did not think of -appearing so in the eyes of others) a blasé man. But with all the blind -senses of an eager and innocent child, he uneasily breathed in the -enigmatical charm, the animality, of the feminine being. He felt for -woman a disgusted attraction. -</p> - -<p> -Attraction. Repulsion. Every real man knows them. At this period of life -the dominating sentiment of the two in Marc was repulsion. But even this -repulsion had a sharp savor that made the other sentiments and the -children of his own age seem tasteless to him. He despised Odette and -regarded this little girl as beneath his dignity. -</p> - -<p> -She was a very little girl in reality, and yet, strangely, a woman. In -spite of the theories of those illustrious pedagogues who divide -childhood into chambered compartments, one for each faculty, everything -already exists in the young child from its earliest infancy, everything -that one is and will be, the double Being of the present and the future -(to say nothing of the immense, impenetrable past that determines both). -Only, to catch a glimpse of it, one must have one's eye open. In the -half-light of dawn it appears only in gleams. -</p> - -<p> -These gleams were more frequent in Odette than in most children. A -precocious fruit. Very healthy physically, she carried within her a -little world of passions that were too great for her. Whence had they -come? From some region that lay behind Annette and Sylvie? Annette was -reminded of herself at Odette's age. But she was mistaken; she had been -much less precocious; and when, observing Odette, she recalled the -forgotten passions of her own childhood, she antedated, in all good -faith, the feelings that belonged to her fourteenth and fifteenth years. -</p> - -<p> -Odette was an aviary, filled with a sound of restless wings. Little -invisible loves passed through her; their flight left lights and shadows -behind it. She was placid and hysterical by turns; without any reason -she would begin to sob, then burst out laughing; then she would have a -feeling of lassitude, of indifference to everything; then again, no one -knew why, at a word, at a gesture, interpreted to suit herself, she -would be happy again, so happy! . . . Overwhelmed with happiness, drunk -with it, like a thrush that is gorged with grapes, she would talk, she -would talk. And then, in the twinkling of an eye, she would vanish; no -one knew what had become of her; they would find her again in a corner -of the store-room, hiding, enjoying the inexplicable happiness she -hardly understood herself. This flock of birds came and went in her -soul; they succeeded one another in a flash. -</p> - -<p> -One never knows how far children are entirely sincere in their emotions: -as they come to them from far away, much further back than themselves, -they are at first astonished to witness them, and they become actors who -play with them experimentally. This power of unconsciously dividing -their emotions is an intuitive process of self-preservation, permitting -them to carry a burden which, without this, would crush their frail -shoulders. -</p> - -<p> -Odette felt, for this person or that, and sometimes for nobody, -transports of passion to which she spontaneously gave a theatrical -expression, not always out loud, but in a whispered monologue for her own -relief; in simulating the feeling she deadened the shock. These impulses -were directed most frequently towards Annette or Marc—towards -the two together; and she often said Annette when she meant Marc, -because Marc made fun of her, Marc despised her, and she hated him. Then -she would have a paroxysm of humiliated and jealous suffering, a desire -for vengeance. . . . Why? What harm could she do him? The worst harm of -all. How could she reach him? . . . Alas, she had only the claws of a -child. It was exasperating. Since she could do nothing (for the moment) -she would pretend to be indifferent. But it was hard to be able to do -nothing; and it was hard also to be indifferent when one always had a -desire to laugh or weep. Such a constraint was against nature: Odette -was in despair over it. She was prostrated till suddenly a peremptory -reawakening of her childish gaiety and the need of movement threw her -back again into her play. -</p> - -<p> -Annette watched, divined, sometimes imagined, these miniature despairs, -and she pityingly remembered her own. How she too had consumed herself -with the fever of loving, desiring, tormenting herself, and for whom, -for what? What purpose could this all serve? It was so out of proportion -with the object, which was limited by the nature of things! What a -squanderer of energy! And what a force of love she spent at random! Some -people had too much, others not enough. Annette, like Odette, was one of -those who had too much, and her son was one of those who did not have -enough. He was the lucky one, poor little fellow! -</p> - -<p> -He was not so poor! The life of his affections was not less rich than -Odette's, nor were the struggles of his mind less lively—though he -said nothing about them. Nor were his feelings less violent, though their -ardor tended in another direction. Yes, he was indifferent to the things -that occupied these women. His spirit was agitated, however, by very -different passions. Intellectually richer and much less absorbed by the -more backward life of his senses, this little man, who felt the obscure -flood of desire rising in him, was turning his energies, like a true -man, towards action and domination. He dreamed of conquests beside which -that of a feminine heart would have seemed to him very paltry—if at -this time of his childhood he had thought of such a thing. The boys of -the preceding generations had dreamed of soldiers, savages, pirates, -Napoleon, adventures on the sea. Marc dreamed of aeroplanes, automobiles -and wireless. About him the thought of the world danced a giddy round; a -delirious movement made the planet vibrate; everything was running and -flying, cleaving the air and the waters, revolving, whirling. A magic of -mad invention was transmuting the elements. No more limits to power; -consequently, no more to the will. Space and time—pass the juggler's -ball!—were volatilized, spirited away by the swiftness of things. -They did not count any more. And men still less. What counted was will, -limitless will. Marc scarcely knew the rudiments of modern science. He -read, without understanding it, a scientific review to which his mother -subscribed; but without realizing it he had been bathed from his birth -in the miracles of science. Annette did not perceive this, for she had -learned science in the scholastic way; she had not breathed it in as a -living thing. She saw the figures written in chalk and the numbers on -the blackboard, the arguments. Marc's imagination was filled with -fabulous forces. Just because he was not embarrassed by his reason he -was carried away by a poetic enthusiasm as vague and ardent as that -which filled the sails of the Argonauts. He dreamed of extraordinary -exploits: piercing the globe with a tunnel from one side to the other, -rising without motor-power into the air, connecting Mars with the earth, -pressing a button and jumping over to Germany—or some other country -(he had no particular preference). With such mysterious words as volts, -amperes, radium, carburator, which he used at random, very coolly, he -conjured up the tales of the Thousand and One Nights. How the devil -could his mind stoop from such a height to a silly little girl? -</p> - -<p> -But body and mind are twin brothers that do not keep step. In their double -growth there is always one of the two—it is not always the same -one—that loiters on the road while the other gallops on ahead. Marc's -body remained that of a child; and while the spirit roamed about aloft a -cord held him by the foot and brought him down again where it was -pleasant to amuse himself. Then, for want of anything better, he would -condescend to play—he would even play with his whole heart, without -condescension, with the silly little girl. These were happy interludes. -</p> - -<p> -They did not last long. There were too many inequalities between the two -children, not only in their age, nor because she was a girl. Their -temperaments were too different. Odette, who was not pretty, and rather -suggested her father, though she had Annette's eyes and a chubby, -well-rounded figure, with her flattish nose, was a robust, healthy child -whose warmth of feeling did not disturb her physical equilibrium but -seemed the natural overflow of an abounding vitality. She had escaped -all the little ailments of childhood. Marc, on the contrary, had been -stamped by the illness of his first year; and although later the -soundness of his constitution was to come out on top, this struggle of -the organism, in which he was often beaten, had spoiled part of his -childhood. He had remained susceptible to the least chill and was often -checked by slight returns of bronchitis or fever. His self-respect -suffered from this, for all his instincts were those of pride and -strength. -</p> - -<p> -Towards the end of 1911, one year after the reconciliation of the two -sisters, Marc had one of those winter illnesses, complicated by -influenza, that caused a passing anxiety. Odette went to see him when he -was in bed. She had been forbidden to do so for fear of infection, but -she had found a way of slipping into the room one evening when the two -mothers were busy in the next room. She was full of sympathy, and Marc, -who was a little feverish, let himself go as he had never done before. -He was restless. -</p> - -<p> -"What are they saying, Odette?" (He imagined they were hiding from him -the gravity of his illness.) -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know. They don't say anything." -</p> - -<p> -"What does the doctor say?" -</p> - -<p> -"He says it isn't anything." -</p> - -<p> -He was somewhat relieved, but he was still suspicious. -</p> - -<p> -"Is that true? No, it isn't true. They're concealing it from me. . . . I -know very well what I've got." -</p> - -<p> -"What have you got?" -</p> - -<p> -He was silent. -</p> - -<p> -"Marc, what have you got?" -</p> - -<p> -He retreated into a proud and hostile silence. Odette was in agony. She -ended by believing that he was very ill, and her anxiety communicated -itself to him. With that passionate exaggeration of hers which assumed -melodramatic forms she clasped her hands. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, Marc, I implore you, don't be so ill. I don't want you to die." -</p> - -<p> -Nor had he the least desire to do so. He liked to be condoled with, but -he had not wanted as much as all this! Hearing uttered what he feared -himself, he was frozen with fright. He did not want to show this, but he -did show it. -</p> - -<p> -"You see, you're hiding it from me. You know. I am very ill." -</p> - -<p> -"No, no, I don't want it to be so. I don't know. I don't want you to be -very ill. . . . Oh, Marc, don't die! If you die, I want to die with -you!" -</p> - -<p> -She flung herself on his neck, weeping. He was very much moved, and he -too wept; he did not know whether it was because of her or himself. At -the sound the mothers ran in scolding and separating them. They felt -very close together at that moment. -</p> - -<p> -By the following morning, however, Marc had thought things over. He was -no longer anxious; he was even annoyed—for to drive away his fears -they had made fun of him—to have shown himself a coward; he blamed -Odette for having led him, by her stupid anxiety, into betraying these -signs of weakness. And then he heard her laughing and saw her passing -his door, overflowing with health. He was angry with her because of this -health. She had too much of it. He envied her and he was humiliated. -</p> - -<p> -After he was well again, he continued for a long time to feel mortified -for having betrayed himself before his cousin's eyes. He was the more so -because he had really been afraid and she had seen it. Once her emotion -had passed, Odette maliciously remembered it all. She had seen him off -his high horse, a timid little boy. She only liked him better for this. -But he could not forgive her. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XXX">XXX</a></h4> - -<p> -Marc was well again. Odette was flourishing. The previous summer she had -proudly made her first communion. (It was about this date that the -Church, like Joconda in search of innocence, had sniffed with its great -distrustful nose the air of the time and made up its mind that there was -no such thing as real innocence after the age of seven.) Odette -considered herself a woman and tried to appear one by toning down her -impetuosity, the impetuosity of a young tethered goat—though at any -moment, with a caper, the little horned creature would escape from one's -hands. . . . Sylvie was happy; her business was going well. And Annette, -who found in her sister's household nourishment for the need of -affection which her age and her ordeal had somewhat tempered, seemed to -have reached a haven of peace. Everything was hopeful. -</p> - -<p> -One warm afternoon, between three and four o'clock, at the end of -October, one of those radiant days when the unveiled light seems as -naked as the stripped trees, the windows were open to let in the rays of -an autumn sun as mild and golden as honey. It was the day after Odette's -eighth birthday. Annette was at Sylvie's. In the room over the court, -they were looking out together and examining materials, gossiping and -gravely occupied with their investigation. Odette was on the other side -of the passage, in the room at the end that overlooked the street. Just -a few minutes before, the inquisitive child had peeped through the -half-open door to see what they were doing. They had pretended to scold -her and had sent her back again to finish a little piece of work before -they all had tea together. Marc was at school; they were expecting him -home again in half an hour. -</p> - -<p> -The moments were flowing along smoothly, without a ripple, without a -wave, unhastingly, as if they were to flow this way for the rest of -their lives. They felt so calm that they did not even think of enjoying -it. It was natural! In the ivy on the wall of the court the happy -sparrows were chirping. The last flies of autumn were humming their -content, warming their torpid wings in the lingering rays of -sunlight. . . . -</p> - -<p> -They heard nothing, nothing. Yet they both became silent at the same -moment, as if the fragile thread on which their happiness was suspended -had broken. -</p> - -<p> -There was a ring at the door. -</p> - -<p> -"Marc, so soon? No, it's too soon." -</p> - -<p> -A ring. Someone was knocking again. What a hurry some people are in! -We're coming! -</p> - -<p> -Sylvie went and opened the door, and Annette followed her a few steps -behind. -</p> - -<p> -At the door the concierge, out of breath, was shouting and waving her -arms. At first they did not understand. -</p> - -<p> -"Madame doesn't know . . . the terrible thing that's happened. The -little girl . . ." -</p> - -<p> -"Who?" -</p> - -<p> -"Mademoiselle Odette. . . . That poor little darling." -</p> - -<p> -"What? What?" -</p> - -<p> -"She's fallen." -</p> - -<p> -"Fallen!" -</p> - -<p> -"She's down below." -</p> - -<p> -Sylvie screamed. She pushed the concierge aside and dashed downstairs. -Annette would have followed her, but her legs failed her; she had to -wait till her heart would allow her to walk. She was still upstairs, -leaning over the baluster, when from the street the wild cries of Sylvie -came to her. -</p> - -<p> -What had happened? Probably Odette, who did not like to work and was -dawdling and rummaging about, had leaned out of the window to see if -Marc was coming and had fallen. The poor little thing had not even had -the time to understand. . . . When Annette, tottering, at last reached -the street, she saw a great crowd gathered. Sylvie, like a madwoman, was -holding in her arms the little broken body, with its legs and head -hanging like a slaughtered lamb. The brown hair veiled the fractured -skull; nothing was to be seen but a little blood at the nose. The eyes -were still open and seemed to be asking. Death had replied. -</p> - -<p> -Annette would have thrown herself on the ground, screaming with horror, -if Sylvie's wild fury had not absorbed all the misery of the world. She -had fallen on her knees on the sidewalk, almost lying on the child, whom -she lifted up and shook with mad cries. She called to her, she called to -her, she denounced . . . Whom? What? Heaven, the earth. . . . She was -foaming with despair and hatred. -</p> - -<p> -For the first time Annette saw in her sister the frantic passions that -Sylvie bore without knowing it in the depths of her nature, passions -that her life till then had spared her from expressing. And she -recognized them as those of her own blood. -</p> - -<p> -The wildness of this grief prevented her from yielding to her own. She -was obliged, by reaction, to remain strong and calm, and she did so. She -took Sylvie by the shoulders. The screaming woman struggled with her; -but Annette, leaning over her, lifted her up; and Sylvie, submitting to -this commanding gentleness, became silent, raised her head, saw the -circle about her, threw a fierce glance towards it and, with the child -in her arms, reentered the house without a word. -</p> - -<p> -She had crossed the threshold. Annette was going in after her when she -saw Marc at the corner of the street on his way home; and, in spite of -her lacerated love for the poor little girl, her heart bounded in her -breast. What a joy that it wasn't he! -</p> - -<p> -She ran to Marc to prevent him from seeing. At her first words, Marc -turned pale and clenched his teeth. She led him away from the scene; she -told him that Odette was seriously hurt. But he, with the distrustful -intuition of a child, knew that she was dead; and with his clenched -fists he tried to drive the terrible thought away. In spite of his -agitation, he was still thinking of himself, his own attitude and the -people who were passing. He noticed that his mother was walking -bareheaded beside him in the street and that people were looking at -them, and this embarrassed him. His annoyance contributed to calm him. -When they had gone halfway, Annette, seeing that he was steadier, told -him to go home alone. She returned hastily to Sylvie. She found her -prostrated, sitting in a state of collapse in a corner, near the bed of -the little dead girl, unable to hear or understand, breathing noisily -like a wounded animal. Her workers were busy with the child. Annette -bathed the little body, dressed it again in white linen, laid it back in -the bed, just as on those faraway evenings—yesterday—eternally -far away, when she had listened to the whispered confidences of the child. -When this was finished, she went over to Sylvie and took her hand. Moist -and cold, the hand lay limply in hers. Annette pressed these fingers -from which the life seemed to have withdrawn, but she did not have the -courage to whisper a tender word, for it could not have penetrated -through the wall of despair. Nothing but the sisterly contact of their -bodies could make her pity slowly find its way through. She wrapped her -arms about her, her forehead resting on Sylvie's cheek; and her tears -dropped on her sister's neck as if to melt the ice that enveloped her -heart. Sylvie was mute and did not stir; but her fingers were feebly -beginning to respond to the sisterly hand when her husband arrived. -Annette went away. -</p> - -<p> -She returned to Marc and told him the truth. It was not news to him. He -did not seem very much moved; he was afraid of his emotion and was -anxious to keep his air of assurance. He should not have been obliged to -speak, for as soon as he opened his mouth his voice began to tremble; he -ran and hid himself in his room to cry. Annette perceived with a -mother's insight the anguish of this childish heart in its first -encounter with death, and she avoided speaking of the redoubtable -subject; but she took him on her knees as she had done when he was a -baby. And he, with no thought of complaining at being treated as a baby, -took refuge in the warmth of her breast. After they had calmed each -other, lulling their fear to sleep and feeling that there were two of -them to protect each other, she put him to bed and begged him to be a -brave little man, not to be frightened if she had to go out and leave -him alone for a part of the night. He understood and promised. -</p> - -<p> -She set out through the dark for the house of tragedy. She wanted to -watch by the dead child. Sylvie had emerged from her dejected -insensibility. She had not returned to her first furious despair, but -the spectacle was not less painful. Her mind was a little unbalanced. -Annette saw a smile on her lips. Sylvie raised her eyes as she heard her -coming in, looked at her, went to her and said, "She is sleeping." -</p> - -<p> -She took her hand and drew her over to the bed. "See how beautiful she -is!" -</p> - -<p> -Her face lighted up, but Annette saw a shadow of anxiety passing over -her brow; and when, after a moment, Sylvie repeated in an undertone, -"She is sleeping well, isn't she?" Annette met the feverish glance that -was waiting for her to say, "She is sleeping. Yes." She said it. -</p> - -<p> -They went and sat down in the adjoining room. The husband was there with -one of the workers. They forced themselves to talk in order to occupy -their attention. But Sylvie's wounded mind was running away from itself, -leaping from one subject to another, without stopping. She had taken up -some work which at every moment she threw down again; she took it up and -threw it down to listen for sounds from the sleeper's room. Again she -said, "How she sleeps!"—her eye wandering over the others in order to -convince them, to convince herself. Once she returned to the little bed, -and, leaning over the child, uttered endearing words to it. This was -cruel for Annette. She wished Sylvie would be silent. Leopold, in a low -voice, implored her not to disturb the illusion. -</p> - -<p> -The illusion fell of itself. Sylvie, coming back to her place, took up -her work and did not speak again. The others were talking around her, -but she no longer heard them. They in turn became silent. A sombre hush -hovered over them. Suddenly Sylvie cried out. Without words. A long cry. -Throwing herself down on the table, she struck her head against it. -Hurriedly they removed the needles and the scissors. When her speech -came back to her, it was to curse God: she did not believe in Him, but -she had to have someone against whom to avenge herself! Her eyes blazed, -and she hurled vulgar oaths at him. -</p> - -<p> -Exhaustion followed. They carried her to bed. She did not stir again. -Annette remained beside her until she was unconscious. -</p> - -<p> -Then she went home again, utterly worn out. The streets were pale with -early dawn. Marc had not slept. She lay down shivering. But just as she was -about to get into bed—it was too much, all she had suffered and had -to repress during the last twelve hours!—she ran in her nightgown and -bare feet into her son's room and passionately kissed his mouth, his -eyes, his ears, his neck, his arms, his hands. "My dear, my dear little -boy," she said. "You, you are not going to leave me?" -</p> - -<p> -He was very much upset, disturbed, frightened. He wept with her, more -for himself than for the others, though he wept for the others too. He -realized now what he had lost; he wept over the affection he had never -desired. He remembered the evening when he had been ill and Odette had -come in to see him. He was stricken with affection and sorrow. But he -thought, "I'm still alive anyway!" -</p> - -<p> -Annette trembled at the thought of beginning another day like the last. -Her strength was not equal to it. But the day that followed did not have -the terrifying violence of the previous hours. Human suffering, when it -reaches its zenith, must descend again. One dies or becomes used to it. -</p> - -<p> -Sylvie had recovered her self-possession. She was livid, with hard lines -about her nostrils and lips which later, as they grew fainter, left -scars behind. But she was calm, active, busy, with her workers, cutting -and sewing her mourning clothes. She gave orders, oversaw things, -worked; and her hands, like her expression, were sure and precise. She -fitted Annette's dress. Annette was afraid to utter a word that would -recall the funeral. But Sylvie spoke of it coldly. She would not leave -the details to anyone else. She decided everything. She preserved her -unnatural calm to the very end of the ceremony, but with a cold and -concentrated rage she had set herself against any religious service. She -could not forgive! . . . Till then she had been vaguely sceptical, -indifferent, not hostile; and while she laughed at it a little, she had -been moved without confessing it on the day when she had seen her -beautiful little girl dressed in white for her first communion. . . . -Exactly! She had been tricked. . . . That dastardly God! She could never -forgive him. -</p> - -<p> -Annette was expecting that the inhuman constraint which Sylvie had -imposed upon herself would be paid for by a fresh crisis when they -returned to the house. But she was not allowed to stay with her sister. -Sylvie harshly forbade it. Annette's presence was intolerable to -her. . . . Annette had her son! -</p> - -<p> -On the following day the anxious husband came to tell Annette that -Sylvie had not gone to bed. She had not wept, she had not groaned, she -was eating her heart out in silence. She had relentlessly resumed her -work in the shop, a mechanical duty that was more imperative than life. -No one would have perceived her state of mind except for certain -accidents, errors that had never happened before. She cut a gown wrongly -and afterwards destroyed it without a word, and she hurt her fingers -with her scissors. They induced her to go to bed at night, but she -remained sitting upright without sleeping, and she did not reply when -they spoke to her. And every morning, before appearing in the workroom, -she made a visit to the cemetery. -</p> - -<p> -This went on for fifteen days. Then, in the middle of the afternoon, she -disappeared. Customers came in and waited. At supper-time she had not -returned. Ten, eleven o'clock passed. Her husband feared that something -desperate had happened. Towards one o'clock she came in, and that night -she slept. No one could find out anything from her. But the next evening -she vanished again, and on the two following days she did the same -thing. She talked now; she seemed to have relaxed. But she did not say -where she had gone. The workers gossiped. Her good husband shrugged his -shoulders with pity and said to Annette, "If she is deceiving me I can't -be angry with her. She has suffered too much. . . . And besides, if it -can only save her from her obsession, well, all right!" -</p> - -<p> -Annette succeeded in catching Sylvie as she was going out, and she -tactfully made her understand the anxiety, the suspicion, the pain, -which her wanderings caused. Sylvie, who did not want to be stopped at -first, seemed to be indifferent to what people might think, but she was -touched by her husband's kindness; and, as if she felt a sudden need of -unbosoming herself, she led Annette into her room and shut the door. She -sat down close beside her and in a low, mysterious voice, with shining -eyes, confessed that she went every evening to a circle of initiates who -gathered about a table in order to talk with her little girl. Annette -listened, horrified, without daring to betray her feelings, while -Sylvie, in a soft voice, recounted the child's replies. There was no -longer any need to urge her to talk; she delighted in the joy of -repeating to herself out loud the puerile words into which she had -transfused all the blood of her heart. Annette could not destroy an -illusion that gave her sister life. Leopold was ready to encourage her: -for his sound common sense this was as good as any other religion. -Annette asked the advice of the doctor, who told her to let the sorrow -wear itself out. -</p> - -<p> -Sylvie was radiant now. Annette asked herself if she would not have -preferred a noble despair to this preposterous joy that profaned death. -In the workroom Sylvie no longer concealed her relations with the world -beyond the grave; the workers made her describe the séances; it gave -them all the shivering pleasure of a popular novel. When Annette came -in, she heard them mingling their lively reflexions with the account of -the last conversation Sylvie had had with Odette; one apprentice was -laughing at it behind the material she was folding up; and Sylvie, so -lately an expert in the handling of irony, saw nothing as she babbled -away, absorbed in her phantasmagory. -</p> - -<p> -She did not stop there. One evening, without saying anything to Annette, -she took Marc with her. She had come to feel once more an exalted -affection for him. The moment she saw him her face lighted up. Annette, -not finding Marc in the house, guessed what had happened. But she took -care not to make him tell her about it when he came in, very late, -depressed and unnerved. The child cried in his dreams. Annette lifted -him up, calmed him, stroked his head with her tender hands. -</p> - -<p> -In the morning she severely demanded an explanation from Sylvie. Her son -was involved, and she spoke directly to the point. This time she did not -conceal her disgust and aversion for these dangerous follies, and she -angrily forbade her sister to mix the little boy up in them. Sylvie, -who, at other times, would have replied in the same tone, bowed her head -with an equivocal smile, avoiding Annette's furious look; she did not -feel instinctively sure enough of her revelations to expose them to her -sister's passionate criticism. She would discuss nothing, she promised -nothing; she had a sly, wheedling manner, like that of a scolded cat -that still means to do just what it chooses. -</p> - -<p> -She did not venture, however, to carry Marc off again. But she did -confide to him what she had heard in her séances; and it was very -difficult to prevent their meetings, which Marc distrustfully kept as -secret as his aunt. Sylvie told Marc that Odette spoke of him. It was -this that bound her to the young boy: Odette had bequeathed him to her. -She transmitted messages between the two children. Marc did not really -believe in all this; the critical sense of his grandfather defended him -against these absurdities, but his imagination was stirred. He listened, -interested, repelled. Even while he lent himself to this unwholesome -game, he condemned Sylvie severely; and he extended his condemnation to -women in general. But this atmosphere of the grave was poisonous for a -boy of his age. The horrible buffoonery of life and death gave him a -precocious, haunting obsession. He felt surrounded by an odor of decayed -flesh. He had moments of suffocation; and, as his mind was not yet -strong enough to defend him, his feverish, preadolescent vitality -reacted by taking refuge in his troubled instincts, which roved about -like animals in the night. A redoubtable flock they were! It seems as -if, by a sort of embryogenesis, the psychic organism passes in its -evolution through the whole series of animal forms—has to pass -through the most bestial stages before it reaches the point where they can -be sublimated by intelligence and human will. Fortunately, this return to -our savage origins is brief; it is a procession of spectres, and the -best thing is to stand aside and let them pass as quickly as possible, -doing nothing to arouse their shadowy consciousness. But this hour is -not without its dangers, and the most loving watchfulness cannot protect -the child from them. For this little Macbeth is the only one who sees -the spectres. For the others, those who are closest to him, Banquo's -seat remains empty; they perceive the fresh voice, the pure features of -the child, but they do not see the formidable shadows that pass in the -depths of its limpid eyes. The curious spectator himself hardly sees -them. How can he recognize them, since they issue from a world in which -he was not born, these instincts of possession, violence and even crime? -There is no perverse thought that he does not touch, that he does not -taste with the tip of his tongue. Neither of the two women who petted -Marc dreamed what a little monster it was they held so close to them. -</p> - -<p> -Little by little Sylvie grew calm. The accounts of her séances ceased -to have a mysterious character; she spoke of them unfeelingly, -hurriedly. She did not care to dwell on them. Soon she even ceased to -mention them except with a certain constraint. And suddenly she stopped -speaking of them altogether; she no longer replied to questions. Had she -met with some disillusionment she did not wish to acknowledge? Or was -she tired of them? She told no one. But in the long conversations she -continued to have with Marc the occult world held less and less of a -place, and it ended by disappearing. She seemed to have recovered her -equilibrium. The passing of the ordeal was only evident to those about -her by the appearance of a slight change in her age, an expression that -was not more refined through suffering, but rather more material, by -features that were a little heavier and a somewhat fuller figure. She -still had the same grace, and she was brighter than ever. The powerful -need to live avenges itself for the agony that has been endured. And new -pains and new pleasures, the leaves of the falling days, the dust of the -road, little by little covered the grave in her heart. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XXXI">XXXI</a></h4> - -<p> -A deceptive appearance. -</p> - -<p> -Life began again in the Rivière household. But the catastrophe had made -a breach in their souls. -</p> - -<p> -The disappearance of a child is a very small event in the general order -of things. We are surrounded by death; it should never surprise us. From -the moment when we begin to look about us, we see it at work and grow -accustomed to it. We think we grow accustomed to it. We know that some -day it will come and work its will in our own homes, and we foresee our -misery. But there is so much more than misery! Let each one look into -his own heart! There are few who will not recognize the revolution that -a death has produced in their whole existence. It marks a change of -eras . . . <i>Ante, Post Mortem</i>. . . . A being has disappeared. Life -in its entirety is affected, a whole kingdom of beings, yesterday the -kingdom of the day and to-day that of the shadow. If this little stone, -this one stone, falls from the vault, the whole vault falls. Nothingness -has no measure. If this little I is nothing, no I is anything. What I love -is nothing; I who love am nothing. For I only exist because I love. The -unreality of everything that breathes becomes suddenly apparent. And -everyone is aware of this, though not in the same fashion, everyone, -with all his organs, his instinct, his intelligence, whether he faces it -directly or averts his eyes and flees from it. -</p> - -<p> -On the family tree from which the little branch of Odette had been -broken off the other branches continued to grow. But the development of -three at least of the four was altered. -</p> - -<p> -The least affected was the father. On the day of the funeral his grief -was painful; his throat and his chest panted like those of a fallen -horse. But a fortnight later he was already caught up again by his -business and the powerful demands of his physical life; he was working, -eating twice as much as ever, travelling, forgetting. -</p> - -<p> -Of the two women Annette seemed to be the real mother. She could not be -consoled. Her grief became all the more bitter the more the traces of -the little girl were obliterated. Odette for her was like a chosen -child, a child created not of her flesh, but of her need of affection, -more hers than Sylvie's, more hers than her son. She accused herself of -not having loved her enough, of having begrudged the caresses of which -this eager little heart had never had enough. And she persuaded herself -that she alone preserved the memory of the child to which the others -were false. -</p> - -<p> -Sylvie exhibited now a strange, busy, agitated gaiety. She talked in a -high voice, with a wearisome flow of words, flashes of jocularity, harsh -tittle-tattle that made her little group of workers burst out laughing. -Marc quietly drank it all in when he happened to be there and heard it -flying about him. He too had relaxed; he was working less, loafing, -running about the streets, always looking for opportunities to do -nothing and laugh. His organism was shielding itself against the terror -within. . . . What outsider could have suspected it? We are impenetrable -to one another; we seem indifferent; we want to unbosom ourselves and we -cannot do so. . . . "There is no communion possible in suffering." -</p> - -<p> -But Annette, whose intense devotion to the dead child made her unjust to -the living, saw only their egoism. In every way it was trying to return -to life and let the stone of memory drop to the bottom; and she was -angry with them. -</p> - -<p> -One day, however, one Sunday when Marc had gone out with Leopold to a -ball-game, Annette, arriving at Sylvie's, found the door of the -apartment open. She went in and heard a long, heavy groan. Sylvie, alone -in her closed room, was talking and moaning. Annette withdrew on tiptoe; -she reclosed the door on the landing and rang. Sylvie came and opened -it; her eyes were red; she said it was a cold and talked with a noisy, -rather vulgar animation. She began to tell one of those eternal indecent -stories of which she seemed to have an endless supply. Annette's heart -sank. Was it possible she was pretending? She was only half pretending. -It was herself, far more than others, whom she wished to deceive. An -utter despair, without a gleam or an outlet, had brought her to a sort -of jocose contempt for life. If she did not want to die, there was no -other alternative but forgetfulness and this mask of careless cynicism -which had ended by replacing the features of the true face. Nothing -meant anything. Nothing was worth the trouble. Propriety, honor, were -all humbug! Nothing was worth taking seriously. Laugh at life! Enjoy -yourself! Work alone continued to exist, for work was a necessity, and -one couldn't get along without it. -</p> - -<p> -Many other things continued to exist beneath all this devastation. -Instinct in Sylvie was sounder than thought, and when she threw away -everything else Annette and her son remained in her flesh and blood. -They were only one person, these three! But this instinctive, almost -material, love did not prevent her from cherishing bad feeling. Sylvie -had no more tenderness for Annette than she had for herself. She was -aggressive and full of mockery in her attitude to her sister, whose -earnestness and silent sadness, heavy with memories, irritated her like -an unspoken reproach. -</p> - -<p> -A reproach indeed. Annette did not have the charity to spare her. She -saw clearly, however, that Sylvie was fleeing from her misery as a -hunted animal flees from a dog, and she pitied her. She pitied the -misery of human nature, but she despised it for seeking safety at the -expense of its dearest treasures, for being always ready to betray its -sacred affections in order to elude the savage pursuit of suffering. She -was embittered by this; for in her own heart she heard the call of this -cowardice in the presence of life, and she scourged it. -</p> - -<p> -Consequently, during these months that followed the disaster, she -imposed upon herself an austere discipline of the heart, a proud, -pessimistic restraint that concealed her wounded love. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -After the dark winter Easter had come. That Sunday morning Annette was -wandering about Paris. The sky had blossomed again; the air was -motionless. With her soul wrapped in its mourning, she heard the -nostalgic calls of the church-bells; and their sonorous net caught her -up in its meshes, drew her outside the flood of this indifferent age to -the beach where the dead God lay. She entered a church. She had scarcely -taken two or three steps before she was stifled by her tears; she had -repressed them so long, and they were flowing again. On her knees, with -bowed head, in a corner of a chapel, she let them flow. Never had she -felt as now the tragedy of this day. She listened to the organ, to the -hymns, the hymns of joy. . . . Joy! . . . Sylvie's laughter, with her -soul weeping in its depths. . . . Ah, she realized it so clearly to-day: -there was no resurrection for the poor dead! And the despairing love -for one's own, that age-old love, wearing itself out denying their -death. . . . How much more grand and religious this poignant verity was -than an illusory resurrection! That passionate self-deception, that -heart-breaking self-deception, which could not consent to losing one's -beloved ones. -</p> - -<p> -She could not share her thoughts with anyone. Shut up in herself, with -the little dead girl, she defended her against the second, the most -terrible, of deaths, oblivion. She reacted harshly against herself and -against the others. And as every reaction against a way of thinking -leads by its recoil to a contrary reaction, her attitude of reproach -provoked those who felt themselves hurt by it to exaggerate their own. -And the breach widened. -</p> - -<p> -It became almost complete between the mother and the son. Marc grew -further and further away from Annette. For years the antagonism had been -growing more evident, but until these latter days it had remained, on -the child's side, veiled, hidden, cautious. During the long period when -he had lived so intimately with Annette, he had been very careful not to -fall into any argument with her; he would have been no match for her, -and above everything else he wanted peace. He let his mother talk. Thus, -one by one, she revealed her weaknesses to him, while he revealed -nothing. But now that he had found an ally in his aunt, he no longer -concealed his hand. How many times in the past his mother, losing -patience with this little mollusc, who drew his mind back into his shell -when she wanted to reach it, had said to him, "Come out of your hole! -Let's have a glimpse of your head. Don't you know how to talk?" -</p> - -<p> -He knew, Annette could have her satisfaction. He talked now. . . . It -would have been better if he had continued to be silent! . . . What a -little wrangler! Ah, he no longer hesitated to contradict her. He -allowed nothing to pass from his mother's mouth without obstinately -cavilling at it. And in what an impertinent tone! -</p> - -<p> -This had happened all of a sudden; and no doubt Sylvie, by maliciously -encouraging this warfare, was partly responsible for it. But the real -cause lay deeper. This change of attitude corresponded with a change of -nature, for the crisis of puberty was approaching. The child was -transformed. In a few months he had assumed another character, and his -rude and crotchety ways were interspersed with returns of his old -taciturnity. There was nothing left of the polite, conciliatory, rather -crafty silence of the child who wanted to give pleasure; one felt now -something hostile and bristling in him. . . . His brusque, off-hand -manner, his flagrant impoliteness, the inexplicable harshness with which -he responded to affectionate advances, made Annette's sensibility bleed. -Sufficiently armed against the world, she was not at all so against -those whom she loved; a single rude word from her son wounded her to -tears. She did not show this, but he was not unaware of it. He went on; -he seemed to be seeking for things that might be unpleasant to his -mother. -</p> - -<p> -He would have been ashamed to behave so with people for whom he cared -nothing. But to her he was certainly not indifferent. He clung to her. -How? Like the living fruit which, when the hour has come, breaks away -from the mother's womb. He was made of her flesh, and to make this flesh -his own he tore it. -</p> - -<p> -Marc had many elements that belonged by nature to another race than his -mother's. But, strangely enough, it was not through these different -elements that he most came into conflict with his mother: it was through -those he had in common with her. For his jealous desire for independence -was not yet in possession of a personality that properly belonged to -him, and every resemblance to his mother seemed to him a sort of threat -of annexation. So, to defend himself, he tried to be different. Whatever -she said, whatever she did, he was the opposite. Because she was loving, -he was insensible; because she was confiding, he shut himself up; -because she was passionate, he was cold and cutting. And everything that -she fought, everything that was repugnant to Annette's nature—ah, how -well he knew these things!—became attractive to him, and he made -haste to let Annette know it. Because she cared about her morality, the -wilful child considered it the proper thing to regard himself as unmoral -and made a point of proclaiming, "Morality is all fiction." -</p> - -<p> -So he declared to his mother, and the credulous Annette took it -seriously. She attributed it to the deplorable influence of Sylvie, who -amused herself by casting disorder into the little soberly cultivated -brain. . . . There they go into the flower-beds, a handful of wild -seeds! And she raked the smooth paths the wrong way. She had plenty of -good reasons for persuading herself that she was acting in the interest -of the child. "That poor little fellow, shut up in a greenhouse, kept -locked up in a box! We're going to take him out of his flower-pot!" Even -while she loved her sister, she took a lively and cruel pleasure in -stealing away from her this heart that was a slip of her own. -</p> - -<p> -The shrewd self-interest of the child in everything that concerned him -had perceived the duel that was being waged between the two sisters, and -naturally he exploited it. He cunningly kept his favors for Sylvie, and -he was much pleased by the jealousy which he aroused in his mother. -Annette no longer concealed this. She justified it, with more reason -than Sylvie, as being in Marc's interest. Sylvie loved the child and she -had plenty of common sense. Her light wisdom was just as good as the -weightier wisdom of some other people, but it was not suitable for a boy -of thirteen, and the good he got from it was dangerous. If she sharpened -in him the appetite for life, she did not give him respect for it; and -when respect vanishes too early, look out for a smash! Sylvie was no -person to form Marc's taste, except in the matter of clothes. She took -him to silly movies and music-halls from which he brought back -bewildering songs and images that left little room for serious thoughts, -and his work showed the effects of it. Annette was angry and forbade -Sylvie to take Marc out. This was a good way of sealing the alliance of -the nephew and the aunt. Marc felt that he was persecuted; he discovered -that, in our time, the profession of being an oppressed people is -remunerative; and Annette learned, to her cost, that of the -oppressor is not all tranquillity. -</p> - -<p> -On every occasion Marc now made her feel that he was a victim and that -she abused her strength. Well, so be it! She would abuse it to keep him -in line. She would not tolerate the frivolity of his language, the -unseemly habit he had picked up of making fun of everything, his -impertinent blague. To subdue it she opposed him with her severe -principles. He had a fine blow to give her in return. For a long time he -had been waiting for the chance. -</p> - -<p> -One day when he was finding support in his aunt's words against some -prohibition of his mother's, Annette impatiently told him that Sylvie -had the right to say and do what she wanted; one couldn't condemn her, -but what was good for her was not good for him. He was not to take her -as a model. "She is not to be imitated in everything." -</p> - -<p> -Marc listened to the tirade and said carelessly, "Yes, but she has a -husband." -</p> - -<p> -Annette could not reply at first; she did not want to understand. What -had he said? No, it wasn't possible! And then a blush spread over her -forehead. Sitting there, with her hands motionless over her work, she -did not stir. Nor did he make any further movement. He was not very -proud of what he had said, of what was about to happen. The silence -continued a long time. A flood of anger rose in Annette's vehement -heart. She let it pass. Pity, irony, took its place. She sighed -contemptuously. "Little wretch!" she thought. And at last, as her -fingers resumed their task, she said, "And no doubt you consider that a -woman without a husband who works to support her child is less worthy of -respect?" -</p> - -<p> -Marc lost his poise. He did not reply. He did not excuse himself. He was -mortified. -</p> - -<p> -That night Annette did not sleep. So she had sacrificed herself in vain! -That the world should blame her was in the order of things. But he to -whom she had given everything! How had he known? Who had breathed this -thought into his ear? She could not be angry with him, but she was -overwhelmed. -</p> - -<p> -Marc slept peacefully. He was not free from remorse, but the sleep was -stronger than the remorse. After a good night he would have forgotten it -if he had not encountered it again in his mother's anxious look. It -annoyed him that his mother had not forgotten as he had. He was sorry, -but he could not make up his mind to say so; and, since he was -uncomfortable, his childish logic made him angry with his mother. -</p> - -<p> -They did not allude to the scene. But after it things were no longer as -they had been before. They were constrained when they kissed each other. -Annette no longer treated him wholly as a child. -</p> - -<p> -How had he known? Conversations at school had made him reflect on the -name he bore, which was that of his mother. Old allusions, picked up as -they had passed in old days in the workshop, which he had not -understood, became clear now. Some imprudent words of Sylvie to her -sister, in the child's presence. And the enigma this mother was for him, -at once irritating and fascinating him, through the aura of passions -which, without the power to discern them, his puppy-instinct had -scented. Over it all he had built a strange, vague fairy-tale which did -not hang together very closely. His birth puzzled him. How could he find -out about it? The reply that hurt his mother was partly a trap he was -setting for her. In his heart there was a mingled curiosity and -bitterness in regard to what had happened, about which he knew nothing. -He had never dared to question Sylvie on the subject, for he was proud -on his mother's behalf and he suspected that she had been wronged. But -he thought he had the right to be angry with her because of the -important secret she was hiding from him. This secret stood like a -stranger between herself and him. -</p> - -<p> -A stranger indeed. Marc never suspected that at moments he invoked -before his mother's eyes the stranger, his father, and, even worse, the -other Brissots. For in the secret warfare that went on henceforth -between the mother and the young boy the latter instinctively armed -himself with everything he could find, in his own nature, that was -opposed to Annette. Thus, without knowing it, he sometimes disinterred -and used against her various traits he had inherited from his Brissot -ancestry: the famous condescending smile, the self-satisfaction, the -waggish philistinism the hostile certitude of which nothing could shake. -A shadow, a reflexion on the water. Annette recognized them and thought, -"They have caught me!" -</p> - -<p> -Was he really a stranger? No, he was not. The weapon, the inherited -traits, yes; but the hand that held it was of Annette's substance. And -that rebellious hand was clenched in that opposition between two beings -who were too closely related, too much akin, which was only one of the -thousand tricks of Love and Destiny. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XXXII">XXXII</a></h4> - -<p> -He had no friends. This boy of thirteen, who spent every morning and -afternoon in a class with thirty other children, was isolated from his -comrades. When he was smaller, he had enjoyed chattering, playing, -running, shouting. For a year or two now, he had had fits of -speechlessness, a sudden hunger for solitude. This did not mean that he -had ceased to feel the need of companions. He may even have needed them -more than before. Exactly! He needed them too much; he expected too much -and he had too much to give. And there were bristles everywhere in this -spring thicket. A bridling self-esteem. A mere nothing wounded it, and -he was afraid of being wounded and especially of showing it. That was a -weakness, and he had to take care not to give the enemy a hold over him. -(There is an enemy in every friend.) -</p> - -<p> -What he had grasped, or rather imagined, regarding his civil status, his -mother's past, kept him in an absurd, ridiculous, towering state of -torment. His reading contributed to this; he was convinced that he was a -"natural" child. (His romantic books called him by a harsher name.) He -found a way of taking pride in this. He almost went so far as to catch -in the archaic insult the wild, musty scent of nobility. He considered -himself interesting, different from other people, solitary, just a -little damned. It would not have displeased him to find himself among -the Satanic bastards of Schiller and Shakespeare. This would have given -him the right to despise the world, with lofty tirades—in secret. -</p> - -<p> -But when he found himself in the world again—in his class at school, -among his comrades—he was intimidated, weighed down by his secret, -suspicious that they might guess it. His strange ways, his fated look, -the thin voice that was beginning to break, his pretty girlishness, -blushing, yet insolent as a young cock, excited the attention and the -ill-will of his companions and even exposed him to the shameful advances -of one of those little scamps who persecuted him with his half-comic, -half-serious, proposals. He was completely upset by this; that night he -was sick with revolt and disgust. He did not want to go back to school -again, and he could not tell his mother the reasons; he had to win -respect for himself unaided. He said to himself, "I shall kill him." -</p> - -<p> -His riotous mind was excited by a deep ground-swell. -</p> - -<p> -He had reached the time when the reproductive forces awaken. They -fascinated him and terrified him. The strange innocence of his mother -existed there beside him without seeing or suspecting anything. He would -have died of shame if she had seen or suspected. And alone, despising -himself, he surrendered frantically to the terrible solicitations of the -degrading instinct. . . . But what could the child do, a poor child -delivered over to these mad forces? This monstrous nature puts into a -thirteen-year-old body the brutal fire which for want of nourishment -devours it. There are natures which find salvation in throwing -themselves wholly, through a contrary excess, into an ascetic exaltation -of the spirit which often entails physical ruin. The young people of our -time, more fortunate than their elders, have begun to practise the -virile discipline of athletics. Marc would have asked nothing better than -this, but there again nature was against him. He was not strong enough. -Ah, how he envied the strong! How jealously he loved their beauty! . . . -So much that he hated it. . . . He would never be like them. -</p> - -<p> -Desires, all the desires, pure, impure, a chaos! . . . All the hostile -demons! He would have been the plaything of chance—nothing could have -helped him—had it not been for a basis of moral health and -decency—rather, the grandeur that is unaware of its own capabilities, -that divine something, the result of the sufferings, the valor, and the -long patience of the best of the race, which will not endure the shame -of defilement, the disgrace of falling, which has an anxious instinct -for what is vile and cowardly, which follows its trail inward, into all -the sinuosities of one's thought, which does not always escape stains, -but never fails to condemn them, to condemn oneself, to brand oneself -and punish oneself. -</p> - -<p> -Pride! All praise to pride! <i>Sanctus</i> . . . In childish natures like -this pride is health. It is the affirmation of the divine in the mire, -the principle of salvation. In a solitude without love who would -struggle without pride? Why struggle, if one does not believe one has -supreme blessings to defend, and that for them one must conquer -or die! . . . -</p> - -<p> -Marc was determined to conquer. Conquer what he understood and what he -did not understand. Conquer what he was ignorant of and what was -repugnant to him. Conquer the enigma of the world and his own baseness. -Ah, here as elsewhere, he was incessantly conquered. In his effort to -work, to read, to concentrate, he slipped beyond his own control, he -found himself out of hand. He always lacked the strength. . . . It was -there, but it was hardly formed, unequal to the task and the demands of -the will. He was devoured by desires and curiosities, healthy, -unhealthy, that plagued him on all sides, weltering as he was in torpor, -incapable of doing anything or determining anything. He wasted his time, -and he was always in a hurry. Already his future filled his mind, the -choice of a career; for he knew that it would be necessary for him to -decide early, and he had no grounds for deciding; he floated through -everything, equally interested and indifferent, attracted and disgusted. -He wanted and he did not want; he was not even capable of wishing or of -not wishing. The machine was not running aright. It would bound forward -and suddenly stop, and he would find himself sprawling on the ground. -</p> - -<p> -Then he looked around him. And this child who was suffering and -devouring himself was quicker than anyone else to perceive the emptiness -and the ennui of an age that had begun its journey to destruction. He -had a keen sense of the abyss. -</p> - -<p> -But his mother saw none of all this. She saw a sulky, overweening, -rebellious, childish boy, morbidly susceptible, grandiloquent, always -making trouble, who sometimes took delight in uttering obscenities, and -at other moments was shocked at a mere free expression. Above all, she -was irritated by his sneers. She had no suspicion of his feeling of -bitterness, still less of his defiance of an evil fate. He felt cruelly -the injustice of his lot; he was (or thought himself) without strength, -without beauty, without talent, good for nothing; he ended by swamping -himself, adding to his real defects others that he imagined; he conspired -with all the outward signs that were able to humiliate him. . . . Those -two little working-girls who laughed as they passed him were -laughing, he thought, at him; he did not suspect that they were laughing -just to arouse his interest, that they rather liked his blushing, shyly -girlish air. He thought he saw in the eyes of his teachers a -contemptuous pity for his mediocrity. He thought his more robust -comrades despised his weakness and were showing up his cowardice; for -since he was excessively nervous, he had his moments of pusillanimity; -and, as he was sincere, he confessed this to himself and felt that he -was dishonored. As a means of self-punishment, he secretly compelled -himself to commit dangerously imprudent acts that brought the cold sweat -to his brow and rehabilitated him a little—so little!—in his -own eyes. It was at himself, often, that this little Nicodemus was -sneering, at himself and his own weaknesses. But he was angry with the -world that had made him what he was, and especially with his mother. -</p> - -<p> -She did not understand his hostile air. . . . What an egoist he was! He -thought only of himself. -</p> - -<p> -He thought only of himself? What would have become of him if he had not -thought of himself? If he had not helped himself, who would have helped -him? -</p> - -<p> -They remained alone, walled up, side by side. The day of confidences was -past. Annette was beginning to repeat the lamentation of mothers, "How -much more loving he was when he was younger!" -</p> - -<p> -And he was saying to himself that mothers only love their children for -their own amusement. No one loves anyone but himself. -</p> - -<p> -No, everyone wants to love the other person. But when one is in danger -one must think of oneself. One will think of the other afterward. How -can one save the other if one hasn't saved oneself? And how can one save -oneself if one lets the other hang about one's neck? -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XXXIII">XXXIII</a></h4> - -<p> -Annette, pushed aside by her son, became as hard as he. When the heart -is deliberately closed to love, the mind, freed by the absence of the -object that nourishes its affection, is driven to satisfy its -intellectual hunger and its need of action. She worked all day, read in -the evening, and at night slept soundly. Marc spitefully envied and -despised the health of this vigorous woman, the faculty she seemed to -have for escaping self-torment. -</p> - -<p> -Annette, however, suffered from the privation of not being able to share -her thoughts with a companion. She filled the void by work, by actively -forgetting. . . . But work for work's sake is itself so empty! . . . And -upon whom can one spend those unused forces one feels in oneself? -</p> - -<p> -Sacrifice! . . . That need of sacrifice! . . . Annette found it -everywhere about her, often pathetic, sometimes absurd. For as a good -observer she incessantly explored faces and souls every day and all day -long; she distracted herself from her own troubles by throwing herself -into those of others. Perhaps curiosity prevailed over pity during this -period when her heart was petrified (as she thought) by the spectacle of -so much suffering, and especially so many defeats and abdications. -</p> - -<p> -Among women who are struggling as she was to wrest from society the -means of existence, how many are broken, far less by the harshness of -things than by their own weakness and abnegation! Almost all are -exploited by some affection and cannot exist without being exploited. -One would say that this is their only reason for living—the reason -for which they die. . . . -</p> - -<p> -One of them sacrifices herself to an old mother or an egotistical -father. Another, to a vulgar husband or some man who deceives her. Another, -another—myself!—to a child who does not love her, who will -forget her, who will betray her to-morrow perhaps. . . . Well, what does -it matter? If I find a joy in being betrayed by him, imposed upon, -forgotten? "If it pleases me to be beaten!" Ah, derision, trickery! . . . -And the others envy you, those who have no one to whom to sacrifice -themselves! They marry a dog, a cat, a bird. Each one has her idol. If -you must have one at any price, God would serve better. He, at least, -amounts to something. . . . I too have my God, my unknown God, my hidden -truth, and this passion that drives me on to seek it. . . . Deceptive, -perhaps, like the others. But I shall not know it till I have reached -it. And if this is deceptive, at least it is elevated and worth the -trouble. -</p> - -<p> -Annette revolted against the absurdity of some sacrifices. No, nature -does not wish the best to be sacrificed to the most unworthy. And if she -did wish it, why should I submit to it? But she does not wish it! She -wishes one to sacrifice oneself to the best, to the grandest, to the -strongest. -</p> - -<p> -Sacrifice at any price, to the worst as to the best, perhaps even to the -worst by preference, because the sacrifice is thus most complete, -sacrifice for the sake of sacrifice—yes, that is conformable enough -to the idea people have of God . . . <i>Credo quia absurdum</i> . . . Like -master, like man! This God is indeed he who rests on the Seventh Day, -finding that which he has made is well made. If one had listened to him, -the chariot of man would have stopped at the first turn of the wheel. -All the progress of the world is made against his will . . . <i>Fiat</i>! -We shall drive the chariot on. It may crush us, but at least we wish it to -go forward. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XXXIV">XXXIV</a></h4> - -<p> -A tragic incident increased Annette's aversion to these immolations that -seemed to her so pointless—immolations of those who were worth more -to those who were worthless. -</p> - -<p> -She had recently been in competition, for a course for foreigners at an -institution at Neuilly, with a young woman whose strong-willed rustic -face had attracted her. She tried to strike up a conversation with her. -But she was suspicious and could think of nothing but getting Annette -out of the way. At that time Annette, who was still unused to these -struggles that repelled her, had held up her own end badly; indeed, -through her desire to make a friend, she had withdrawn in the interest -of her rival. The latter had shown her no gratitude for this. Nothing -counted for her but her own advantage. An ant eagerly hastening to heap -up her gains. Annette did not interest her. -</p> - -<p> -Annette had lost sight of her, and when, six years later, chance brought -them again into one another's presence, they had both changed. Annette -was no longer disposed to be generous, or rather fastidious. . . . Life -is as it is. . . . I am not able to modify it. I want to live. You must -take second place. -</p> - -<p> -The struggle began. It did not last long. At the first blow the rival -was knocked out. How she had aged! Annette was struck by her ravaged -look. She had remembered her as a brunette with ruddy cheeks marked with -two or three little black dots like raisins in bread, a solid peasant -girl, short-waisted, thick-set, a face with fine, dry features, which, -if it had not been so sullen, would not have lacked a certain grace—a -stubborn brow, abrupt, always hurried movements. She saw now a thin, -shrivelled face, a hard glance, a bitter mouth, hollow cheeks, young but -blighted like scorched grass. -</p> - -<p> -The disputed situation was that of secretary to an engineer: it required -only two mornings of attendance each week to go through the business -correspondence and receive visitors. Annette encountered Ruth Guillon in -the antechamber, and their hostile eyes met. -</p> - -<p> -"You have come for this place," said Ruth Guillon. "It has been promised -to me." -</p> - -<p> -"It has not been promised to me," said Annette. "But I have come for -this place." -</p> - -<p> -"No use, it's going to be given to me." -</p> - -<p> -"Whether it's useless or not, I've come. It belongs to the one who gets -it." -</p> - -<p> -A moment later Annette was called into the engineer's office and chosen. -She was known as an accurate, intelligent worker. -</p> - -<p> -As she came out she ran into Ruth and passed her coldly. Ruth stopped -her and asked, "You are going to have it?" -</p> - -<p> -"I have it." -</p> - -<p> -She saw the other's forehead redden strangely. She was expecting some -violent remark, but Ruth said nothing. Annette continued on her way, and -the other followed her. They descended the stairs. As she reached the -street, Annette, turning round, threw a rapid glance towards her -defeated rival, and Ruth's dejected air touched her. In spite of her -resolution to be hard, she went back and said to her, "I'm sorry. One -has to live." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I'm quite aware of that," said the other. "Some have all the luck. -I never have any." -</p> - -<p> -Her tone had entirely changed. Dejection without animosity. Annette made -a movement to take her hand, but Ruth drew back her own. -</p> - -<p> -"Come, don't feel badly! One day one of us loses; another day it will be -the other." -</p> - -<p> -"It's every day with me." -</p> - -<p> -Annette recalled their first encounter when Ruth had succeeded in -getting the place. Ruth did not reply and walked along dejectedly beside -Annette. -</p> - -<p> -"Couldn't I help you?" said Annette. -</p> - -<p> -The blush overspread her forehead again. Wounded pride, emotion? Ruth -said dryly, "No!" -</p> - -<p> -"It would give me pleasure to do so," Annette insisted. -</p> - -<p> -And with a familiar gesture she seized her arm. Ruth was surprised and -pressed Annette's hand nervously under her arm, and, turning her head, -she bit her lip. Then she tore herself away in irritation and walked -off. -</p> - -<p> -Annette let her go, following her with her eyes. She understood her: -yes, one has no right to offer one's pity to one who does not ask for -it. -</p> - -<p> -A few days later, entering a dairy, she saw Ruth making some purchases. -She held out her hand to her. This time Ruth took it, but with an icy -air. She made an effort, however, to appear less sullen; she uttered a -few common-place words, and Annette, satisfied with this ungenerous -advance, replied. The two women discussed the prices of the things they -had bought. Annette, though she did not show it, was astonished that -Ruth spent more than she on fresh eggs and special milk. Ruth was a -little ostentatious in paying in front of her. As they went out, Annette -said, "How much it costs to live!" She almost excused herself for the -eggs she had bought, saying, "They're for my child." -</p> - -<p> -Ruth, with a lofty air, remarked, "Mine are for my husband." -</p> - -<p> -Annette knew nothing about the other's life. "Is he ill?" she asked. -</p> - -<p> -"No, but he is very delicate." -</p> - -<p> -She spoke proudly of the care that his health required. Annette, who -knew how touchy Ruth was, did not ask her any questions, but waited for -her to speak. Ruth said nothing more and they were about to separate -when Annette remembered. . . . She offered Ruth a job—the revision of -some work by a foreigner—which had been offered to her and which she -did not have time to undertake. Ruth at once showed the liveliest -gratitude: money played in her life a capital rôle. Annette asked for -her address in case she had other orders to pass on to her. Ruth -hesitated and replied evasively. -</p> - -<p> -"It's only to be of service to you," said Annette impatiently. "In any -case, I live myself—" And she gave her address. -</p> - -<p> -Ruth reluctantly gave her own. Annette felt rebuffed and decided to -think no more about her. -</p> - -<p> -But Ruth came and looked her up a few weeks later. She excused herself -for having seemed so unfriendly. And this time she confided to her a -little, not much, about her life. Born of a family of rich farmers, she -had quarrelled with her father because she had wanted to come to Paris -and teach. Her father had wounded her pride and she had sworn never to -accept anything from him. She wanted to earn her own living. She had -worn herself out. In spite of her energy, thinking was too much for her; -she labored at her books like an animal at the plough; the blood swelled -her temples; she was obliged to stop in a state of congestion. An -incipient neurasthenia forced her to give up the examinations she was -just ready to pass. She fell back upon giving private lessons. She was -succeeding, with difficulty, in earning her living when she fell in love -with a man whom she married and who became simply one burden the more. -But this she did not say; Annette learned it elsewhere. She was acute -enough to divine a part of the truth in the course of the discreet -questions she asked her new friend. She saw that the husband had no -occupation: he was an "intellectual," an "artist," a "writer." And she -did not have to go very far to find what he wrote. Verses! . . . -</p> - -<p> -Ruth had no more taste than any other little provincial soul. But the -poetry overawed her. -</p> - -<p> -She was in no haste to introduce her "artist." She kept him at home. But -from this time forward she saw Annette more often—too often. She -ended by overwhelming her with testimonials of friendship, flowers, -attentions that were seldom very well inspired and only irritated -Annette. She had no middle way: it was all or nothing with this -passionate soul. She had never had a woman friend; she had never -confided in anyone. From the moment when she made up her mind to like -Annette she monopolized her. Annette was bored to death by this -affection, and she realized that the husband would not find it easy to -bear. -</p> - -<p> -At last she succeeded in surprising and catching a glimpse of the -precious bird: a dull, insignificant man with vague blue eyes who gave -the impression that he was a secret devotee of absinthe. Very vain and -far from sure of himself, utterly mediocre, he was anxious for Annette's -good opinion. He did not love his wife, but he found it convenient to be -pampered by her and assumed languishing, piteous, sad airs in the name -of his health, his unrecognized talents and the envy of his -fellow-writers. Annette pierced him through and through with her clear -eyes. He was cautious with her and moderated the jeremiads for which the -silent irony of his listener was waiting. But Ruth swallowed everything -whole; she was incapable of judging and as proud as Artaban. . . . "Let -her keep her illusions. She needs some one to love, a man to protect. -She has a passionately domestic soul. She would lie down under his -feet. . . ." But sometimes she quarrelled with him bitterly. Once, as -Annette was climbing the stairs, she heard the "poet" bawling and whining. -Ruth was slapping her husband. -</p> - -<p> -Annette no longer had any doubt that the best part of Ruth's money was -spent for José's loafing and absinthe. He played the races also. Ruth -never complained: she struggled to save up enough for him to publish a -volume of his poems. But he was in no hurry to write them. And when, one -day, she went over her accounts she discovered that he had stolen -three-quarters of the money: he had robbed himself! -</p> - -<p> -That day, with her pride utterly broken, she confessed her misery to -Annette. She would not have spoken if it had concerned herself alone. -But for years she had been wearing herself out for him—"for his -glory," as she said. And he had destroyed it himself! -</p> - -<p> -One confidence leads to another. Annette ended by learning almost all of -Ruth's sufferings. Her health was ruined. She was growing weaker every -day and less able to restrain her thoughts. As death approached her eyes -were opened and she realized the inanity of this man and his lack of -affection. José was hardly ever at home any more. He would steal away, -finding no pleasure in the society of a sick, disappointed wife. -</p> - -<p> -When her last days came, Ruth had no illusions left. She declared, -however, with sincere pride, that she regretted nothing and that she -would do it all over again. -</p> - -<p> -"<i>That</i> has killed me. But I have lived by it." -</p> - -<p> -She did not believe in anything; she expected nothing, either in this -world or in the other. . . . -</p> - -<p> -Annette was alone with her when she lay on her deathbed. A hemorrhage of -the brain had struck her down. -</p> - -<p> -José, who had fled at the approach of death, showed his timorous face a -few moments afterwards. He had a brief moment of feeling. After he had -wept, his first words were, "But what in heaven's name is to become of -me?" -</p> - -<p> -"You'll find someone else to support you," said Annette. -</p> - -<p> -He threw her a spiteful glance. And he let Annette pay the funeral -expenses. -</p> - -<p> -"There you are!" Annette thought, by the bedside of the dead woman. "She -was a tower of pride, will, ascetic devotion. . . . What good did it all -do? What a mess! Giving oneself to a dog! Poor Ruth was hard. She was -not hard enough. One must be harder still." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XXXV">XXXV</a></h4> - -<p> -Reaction against the deception of the heart—my accursed heart which -is only there to delude me. My head and my senses will and know. My heart -is blind. It is my business to direct it. Reaction against love, and -against sacrifice, and against goodness. -</p> - -<p> -In everyone's life, as in the life of society, there are phases of -feeling that succeed one another without resembling one another. Their -first law, indeed, is not to resemble one another. While one phase is in -the ascendant, everyone shares in it with complete seriousness, feeling -nothing but contempt for the ridiculousness of the phases that have -passed out of date and convinced that his phase is and will always be -the best. . . . Annette passed in this way through a phase of hardness. -</p> - -<p> -But whatever one's garment may be, the human being remains the same. One -cannot get along without others. The proudest needs his share of -affection; and the more circumstances oblige one to shut oneself in, the -more one's treacherous mind conspires to betray one. -</p> - -<p> -Annette felt very strong. Strong in her experience and her intelligence, -firm, practical, disillusioned. She was sure now that she could live by -her will—of course, by working, but the work too was her will. She -did not fear any lack of this. She did not need anyone's help. Nor was she -going to put herself out either to please or to displease. -</p> - -<p> -She had found herself in competition lately with a new kind of rival, -men. She gave lessons to boys to prepare them for school and -examinations. She was successful, but along with her success came the -increasing animosity of those to whom she was preferred. They considered -themselves thwarted. There was no question of gallantry any more. The -most destitute of consideration were the married men: their wives -spurred them on. They slandered Annette: what would they not insinuate -in regard to the means by which she managed to reach the best places? -Annette, with her hard, attractive smile on her lips, followed her own -road, scornful of public opinion. -</p> - -<p> -At bottom, however, there was the invisible stamp of the wear and tear -exacted by these long years of merciless toil. Her fortieth year was -approaching. Life had passed and she had not realized it. An obscure -feeling of revolt was rising within her. All this lost life, this life -without love, without action, without luxury, without any rich -joy. . . . And all that she had missed she had been so completely -fitted to enjoy! -</p> - -<p> -What was the use of thinking of it? It was too late now! -</p> - -<p> -Too late? -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><i>SUMMER</i></h4> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="PART_THREE">PART THREE</a></h4> - -<p><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XXXVI">XXXVI</a></h4> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/dropcap-s.jpg" width="70" height="70" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap nind"> -Solange had the small, well-rounded, rustic face of a Gothic Madonna, an -oldish, infantile air, laughing, wrinkled eyes, a pretty nose, a -delicate mouth, a rather heavy chin, fine skin and a ruddy complexion. -She liked to discuss serious thoughts in a serious tone, very serious, -contrasting comically with her kind, humorous face, which tried hard not -to be so; but her words hurried along for fear of losing the thread of -her sober ideas; and sometimes she actually did stop in mid-course with -a void in her mind: "What was it I meant to say?" -</p> - -<p> -Her auditors seldom whispered a reply, for they scarcely listened to -her. But she did not irritate them, for Solange was not one of those -people who hold forth and insist upon your following their insipid -discourse. She had no pride and was ready to apologize affectionately -for having bored you. But incapable as she was by nature of grasping an -idea, she had a naïve aspiration for thought and an immense good will. -Nothing very much came of it: her thoughts never quite arrived. The -grave books, Plato, Guyau, Fouillée, yawned at the same page for weeks -or months; and the great, beautiful projects, idealistic, -altruistic—works of social aid or new systems of education—were -intellectual toys that she soon forgot in their corners and under the -furniture till the next chance brought them to her attention again. A -good little bourgeoise, gentle, amiable, pretty, sensible, -well-balanced, with a dash of pedantry, unconstrained, droll, who, -without posing, imagined that she had intellectual needs and really had -to talk about the ideal and many other things, all on the same plane, -calm, tidy, well-dressed, polite, innocent and a nobody. -</p> - -<p> -Younger than Annette by three or four years, she had once felt for her -one of those paradoxical attractions that harmless natures feel for -those that are dangerous. It is true that these phenomena usually -manifest themselves at a distance. In fact, she had approached Annette -very little at school, where they were in different classes. It was only -because she saw her as she came and went and had picked up some echoes -from the older girls that little Solange had conceived for her elder a -timid fascination. Annette had had no suspicion of it; and since then -Solange had completely forgotten her. She had married, and she was -happy. Not to have been happy, she would have had to have a monster for a -husband—or a passionate man. Victor Mouton-Chevallier was, heaven be -praised, neither one nor the other. A sculptor by vocation, he was not -tormented by inspiration, for he had an income and a rich placidity. He -had no lack of taste, but he felt no pressing need of translating into -his art anything different from what had already been done by this, that -or the other of his illustrious confrères of all ages. And as he was -innocent of ambition, as he was free from illiberal feelings (from -others too, perhaps), he enjoyed an unmixed satisfaction in finding -himself so well, so completely, expressed—at least, so he flattered -himself in believing—by Michael Angelo, by Rodin, by Bourdelle, or by -the smaller gentry; for he was eclectic and found his good things -everywhere. In this happy state he would certainly not have made the -effort to produce anything himself if this had not added to his pleasure -one savor the more: the flattering illusion that he belonged to the -family. He was willing to accept the tender respect that he felt called -upon to show for the heroes of art and their misfortunes. He shared in -these latter—from afar; and he forced his jovial face to assume an -air of austere melancholy as he listened to his wife discreetly playing the -Sonata Pathétique on the piano—for Beethoven also belonged to the -family. Solange had fully responded to his domestic needs. A tranquil -affection, an easy kindness, a gentle, uniform, complacent humor, an -indoor idealism that did not risk itself outside when it was -windy or muddy, a propensity for admiring that renders life so -much more comfortable!—in short, in a word that says everything, -<i>security</i> was their true unconfessed ideal. Their circumstances, -both of fortune and of heart, permitted them to have this. They were -sheltered from material cares, and there was no fear that they would -introduce trouble into their household. -</p> - -<p> -But they did introduce Annette. If they had known the elements this Frau -Sorge carried within her, they would have been dreadfully upset. But -they did not know. They were like innocent children playing with an -explosive; they would have had an attack of nerves if they had guessed -what they held in their hands. But guessing nothing, after having their -own sport, they went and laid it down gently, without intending any -harm, in the garden of a friend. . . . They laid Annette down in the -garden of the Villards. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XXXVII">XXXVII</a></h4> - -<p> -When Solange discovered Annette again, she also discovered in herself -once more the old feeling she had had for her: she fell in love with -her. Like everyone else, she knew about Annette's "irregular" life. But -in her goodness—a goodness without depth, but also without -prudery—she did not think any the worse of her. It must be said -that she did not understand it very well. With her indulgent -disposition, which was the most sympathetic side of her amiable nature, -she supposed that Annette had undoubtedly been victimized, or perhaps -that she had had her own serious reason for acting as she had done. In -any case, it concerned only herself; and she was indignant at public -opinion. After seeing her friend again, she made inquiries about her and -learned of her courage and self-abnegation; she conceived the most -exaggerated admiration for her. This was one of those periodic -infatuations that left her, for a time, no room for any other feeling. -Her husband, whom she fed with her enthusiasms, found in this one an -opportunity for melting over Annette's nobility of heart, and that of -his wife, and his own as well. (Is there anything that enables us to -enjoy our own moral beauty more than to be stirred by that of a -fellow-creature?) Husband and wife tried to outbid each other in their -noble intentions towards Annette. They could not leave her alone, -destitute of sympathy, that poor woman, the victim of social injustice! -The Mouton-Chevalliers set out to find Annette, climbing all the way up -to her fifth floor. They surprised her in the act of doing her -housework. This struck them as all the more touching; and her coldness -seemed to them an admirable dignity. They did not leave till they had -won Annette's promise to come and dine with them with her little boy, -<i>en famille</i>, the following evening. -</p> - -<p> -Annette was not very much pleased by this renewed friendship. She saw -how insipid it was. Her years of moral solitude had given her a savage -instinct. It was not good to avoid people too much; one found it hard to -get into touch with them again; one became aware of an odor of -corruption under the flowers. In the quiet household of the -Mouton-Chevalliers, Annette was not at her ease; their conjugal -happiness did not make her envious. "Too mild, too mild, too mild!" as -somebody says in Molière. "No, thank you! Not for me!". . . She had -reached a time when she needed the harsh winds of life. . . . -</p> - -<p> -Well, she ought to have been satisfied! The mild Solange was going to -see that she got them. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XXXVIII">XXXVIII</a></h4> - -<p> -Annette was dressing to go out to dinner. This evening she was to meet -at the Mouton-Chevalliers those friends of whom she was sick of hearing -from Solange—Doctor Villard, a fashionable surgeon with a rather -garish reputation, and his brilliant young wife. She was troubled. "What if -I shouldn't go?" She half thought of sending a line to excuse herself. But -Marc, who was bored with being alone with his mother, was delighted at -any pretext for going out. Annette did not want to deprive him of this -distraction. Besides, she knew she was absurd. "What's the matter? -What's troubling you?". . . It was like a presentiment of evil. . . . -Silly! The rational spirit that dwelt in her, side by side with the -instincts that took no account of it, made her shrug her shoulders. She -finished her toilet and, taking her son's arm, set out for Solange's. -</p> - -<p> -The superstitious instinct was not long in taking its revenge. It is no -miracle, indeed, when a presentiment is realized. A presentiment is a -predisposition towards what one is afraid of feeling. Consequently, if -it comes to pass, there is nothing magical about it. It is a sort of -divining-rod; as it approaches a spring, a shiver warns it that the -water is eating its way under the surface. -</p> - -<p> -On the threshold of the drawing-room, Annette felt the warning; but she -knit her brows, and as soon as she entered the room she was reassured. -Even before Solange had presented him to her, she had made up her mind -at a glance about Philippe Villard: he was antipathetic to her. She had -a feeling of relief. -</p> - -<p> -Philippe was not handsome. He was small, thick-set, with a brow that -bulged above the eyes, a strong jaw, a short, pointed beard, a steely -blue glance. Very much master of himself, he was cold in a courteous, -commanding way. Seated beside Annette at table, he followed two -conversations: the general discussion that Solange was carrying on in -her desultory manner and that which, in the intervals, he held with his -neighbor. In both he had the same brief, precise, trenchant way of -talking. Never a hesitation, either for a word or an idea. The more -Annette listened, the more hostile she felt towards him. She replied, -concealing herself under a rather dry and distant indifference. He did -not seem to attach great importance to what she said. No doubt he was -judging her from the silly eulogies he had heard from Solange. He was -barely polite. This did not surprise anyone: they were used to his -abrupt ways. But it irritated Annette to have to endure them. She -observed him beside her, without appearing to see him, feature by -feature; and she could find nothing about him that pleased her. But the -total impression was not the total of her impressions of details; and -when, without difficulty, she reached the end of her examination, she -felt uneasy again. A movement of the hand, a wrinkling of the face. . . . -She was afraid of him. And she thought, "Above everything in the -world, he mustn't see into me!" -</p> - -<p> -Solange spoke of an author who, she said, had the gift of tears. -</p> - -<p> -"A pretty gift!" said Philippe. "Tears in life are not worth much. But -in art I know nothing more disgusting than to collect them in a bottle." -</p> - -<p> -The ladies cried out at this. Madame Villard said that tears were one of -the pleasures of life, and Solange said they were an ornament of the -soul. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, how about you, don't you protest?" he asked Annette. "Do you too -get your supplies from the property-man?" -</p> - -<p> -"I have enough of my own," she said. "I have no need of other people's." -</p> - -<p> -"You live on your capital?" -</p> - -<p> -"Can you suggest any way for me to get rid of them?" -</p> - -<p> -"Be hard!" -</p> - -<p> -"I'm learning," she replied. -</p> - -<p> -He threw her a brief sidelong glance. -</p> - -<p> -The others continued to unbosom themselves. -</p> - -<p> -"Look over there," said Philippe to Annette. "There's a good chap who -ought to be taught it." -</p> - -<p> -With a corner of his eye he indicated Marc, whose mobile face was -naïvely betraying the various emotions which the pretty Madame Villard, -sitting beside him, stirred in him. -</p> - -<p> -"I'm afraid," said Annette, "that he already has too much of a tendency -that way." -</p> - -<p> -"All the better!" -</p> - -<p> -"All the better for those who meet him along the way?" -</p> - -<p> -"Let him walk over them!" -</p> - -<p> -"That's easy for you to say." -</p> - -<p> -"You have only to step aside yourself." -</p> - -<p> -"That would be against nature." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, no, the thing that's against nature is to love too much." -</p> - -<p> -"One's own child?" -</p> - -<p> -"Anyone, one's own child especially." -</p> - -<p> -"He needs me." -</p> - -<p> -"Look at him! Is he thinking of you? He would disown you for a crumb -from my wife's hand." -</p> - -<p> -Annette's fingers clenched on the tablecloth. . . . Ah, how she hated -him! . . . He had seen her fingers. "I didn't create him just to give -him up." -</p> - -<p> -"You didn't create him at all," he replied. "Nature created him. She -uses you and casts you aside afterward." -</p> - -<p> -"I shall not let myself be cast aside." -</p> - -<p> -"A battle, then?" -</p> - -<p> -"A battle!" -</p> - -<p> -He looked her in the face, "You will be beaten," he said. -</p> - -<p> -"I know it. One always is. But what's the difference? One fights just -the same." -</p> - -<p> -Under the cold mask her eyes smiled defiantly. But the blue gaze of the -other penetrated her like a stab. She had given herself away. -</p> - -<p> -Philippe was a forceful man. His force was part of his genius. He -carried it as much into his clinic, in his terrible diagnostics and the -sureness of his hand, into the operating-room, as into the acts of his -life and his decisions. Accustomed to reading at a glance the depths of -human bodies, he had understood Annette completely at once—Annette, -her passions, her pride and her troubles, her temperament and her strong -nature. And Annette felt that she had been caught. With her helmet -fallen so soon, her visor broken, furiously angry, she betrayed -henceforth to the eyes of her adversary only an icy armor. In the -constriction at her heart, she knew now that the enemy had come. The -enemy? Yes, love. . . . (Ah, that insipid word, so far from the cruel -force itself! . . .) To the sudden awakening of interest which she had -perceived in him, she opposed an ironical inflexibility that very -inadequately concealed the hostility she felt. It only completed her -self-betrayal. She was too genuine, too passionate. She could not -pretend. Her very animosity revealed the depths of her being. Philippe -was the only one to see this. He did not attempt to revive the -conversation again; he had learned enough, and, with a detached air, -recounting to the company one of those bitter, amusing stories that were -stamped with his own harsh experience, he measured with his eye the -woman he intended to capture. -</p> - -<p> -None of the others who were present had observed anything. The -Mouton-Chevalliers were regretfully convinced that Annette and Philippe -were unsympathetic to each other: between their two characters there was -nothing in common. However, in bringing Annette and the Villards -together, they had hoped that Annette and Mme. Villard would become -friends. "They were made for each other." And so far as that was -concerned, they had the pleasure of seeing that they were not mistaken. -</p> - -<p> -Noémi Villard was a delightful Creole, with small bones, plump flesh -gilded like a roast pigeon, the eyes of a roe, a fine nose, spare -cheeks, a prominent little mouth that always seemed to be ready to snap -something up; round, innocent, youthful breasts, generously revealed, -frail arms, a slender waist, small feet, delicate legs. She played the -part of a child-woman, with her infatuations, her languors, her -enthusiasms, her laughs and tears and lisping words. She seemed to be a -fragile creature, expansive, sensitive, not too intelligent. In reality -she was just the opposite. With plenty of brains, sensual, dry and -passionate, observing everything, calculating everything, unweariable, -unbreakable, fragile, yes, like a willow that bends -and—bing!—comes lashing back, made of solid cement under the -friable enamel. She alone could have told how much energy this delicate -enamel cost. As for intelligence, she had enough of it and to spare: she -kept it in the bank, but she utilized it only for the object that -interested her, her husband, whom she held jealously. Theirs had been, -on both sides, a passionate marriage of the head and the -senses—passionate in its pleasures and its vanity. Noémi's -decision had long preceded Philippe's choice, and even his attention. -This man who, after the example of his illustrious Parisian confrères, -carried on with equal ardor his crushing professional activity and a -ceaseless social life, had found the time to indulge in many love -affairs. His triumphant reputation had had a good deal to do with -Noémi's mad love and her determined desire to capture him, for herself -alone, and keep him. Philippe cared nothing about intelligence in women. -He wanted them to be well-made, healthy, elegant and stupid. He went so -far as to say that a woman could never be stupid enough. Noémi -certainly was not, but that made no difference. A woman who desires a -man can assume, before her mirror, the mind as well as the eyes that he -likes. She intoxicated Philippe with her youthful body and her idolatry. -She absorbed him greedily. -</p> - -<p> -But the career of a mistress is not a sinecure. It requires the -expenditure of a kind of genius. And there is never a moment of rest! -After a long period of mutual amorous servitude Philippe was beginning -to grow weary. Noémi, marvellously prompt in perceiving in the heart of -her husband-lover the least signs of a veering of the wind, slept with -one eye open; always jealously on the watch, while Philippe was unaware -of it, she was able to turn danger aside with one stroke and entrap -again, by the allurement of the senses and her subtle wit, the man who -was about to escape her. It was a game at first, but not for long. Still -more than Philippe she had to watch herself, to be always attentive, -always ready to ward off the unexpected ravages of the perfidious -minutes, the infallible ravages of the days and the years. Noémi no -longer had all her first freshness; her complexion was mottled; the -fineness of her face was turning to dryness, her throat was growing -heavy, and the pure cords of her neck were menaced. Art flew to the aid -of the endangered masterpiece and even added a few additional charms. -But what tension this always meant! The least moment of abandon would -have betrayed the secret to the keen eye of the master, who would not -have forgotten it. Never to allow oneself to be taken unawares! . . . -What a tragedy one morning when one of the little upper incisors broke! -Noémi had remained half the day invisible at the dentist's, for if, on -her return, Philippe had not seen her exhibit her impeccable smile, he -would have had suspicions into which jealousy did not enter. (Though -even jealousy is less terrible than a broken tooth!) She had to play a -fast game. Philippe was not one of those husbands whom one can easily -deceive in regard to the quality of one's physical wares. He belonged to -that trade himself. Noémi always felt her heart beat a little when he -turned on her one of those "X-Ray" glances (as she called them, -laughing, to put him on the wrong scent) with which he made her undergo -a visit of inspection. "Does he see?" she would, wonder. He saw, but he -did not show it. Noémi's art seemed to him a part of nature; and so -long as the effect pleased him everything went well. But look out for -the day when the effect might fail! . . . She could not sleep two nights -running on her laurels. She had to win them anew every morrow morning. -And she was not permitted to appear anxious. To please the master she -had to seem always gay, young, radiant. It was crushing at times. In -moments of weariness, when she knew she was not being seen, she slid -down in the hollow of a divan, with a hard wrinkle between her eyes, a -shrivelled smile, her carmine lips bleeding. . . . But the attack of -weakness never lasted more than a minute or two. She had to set out -again. And she did set out. Young, gay, radiant. . . . Why not? She was -so. And she did not slacken. . . . Besides, there are ways of avenging -oneself against, a tyrant whom one cannot do without and who abuses one. -Enough! She had her secrets. . . . We shall speak of them presently if -she is willing. For the moment she laughs, not merely with her lips; she -is satisfied with herself and with him, she is sure, she has kept -him! . . . And naturally this is the hour when he escapes from her. . . . -In vain all her talent! All this trouble in vain! There always comes a -moment when the attention is relaxed. Even Argus slept. And the caged -animal, the heart of the chambered lover, regains its liberty. -</p> - -<p> -Through one of those aberrations to which nature is accustomed, which -the good mediator finds to her advantage, Noémi, for once, saw a woman -without distrust. And that woman was Annette. -</p> - -<p> -She was relying on the deceptive assurance that Philippe abhorred -intellectual women. Annette was the last one to cause her any -uneasiness. From the physical portrait of her rivals in the past, from -her own portrait, Noémi had made an image of the woman who might steal -her husband away from her. She saw her as small, like herself, rather -dark, pretty, of course, delicately made, coquettish, knowing how to -make the best of her advantages. Philippe professed the humorous opinion -that woman, being exclusively made for the service of man, should, in -modern life, be an extremely finished drawing-room trinket, but one that -was easy to handle—that, without taking up too much space, she should -agreeably furnish the drawing-room and bedroom. He did not like large -women and valued grace more highly than beauty. As for the qualities of -the mind, he said that, when he needed them, he found them in men, and -that the only mind he demanded of a woman was the "mind of the body." -Noémi did not contradict him in this: she corresponded with the -portrait. Annette did not correspond with it at all. Large and strong, -with a heavy beauty, in repose, when nothing animated her, and (when she -did not wish to have it) without grace. A Juno-heifer slumbering in a -meadow—so Noémi judged her reassuringly; and the fact that Annette -appeared so frigid with Philippe made her attractive. On her side, -Annette, who was very susceptible to prettiness in women, and inclined -to like what did not resemble herself, was charmed by Noémi; in talking -with her she showed that she too, when she wished, had an enchanting -smile. Philippe lost nothing of this; and his new-born flame blazed up -for this Annette with her two masks, one of which was not for him. -(Wasn't it for him? The love one repulses has such clever ways of -re-entering the place from which it has been expelled!) At the same time -that Annette was preventing Philippe from scrutinizing her mind and -intrenching herself behind her most unattractive manner, she was not -displeased that he should see her most captivating expression over the -wall. . . . Yes, he had seen it clearly. From the opposite corner of the -drawing-room, as he was describing to his hosts some recent experience, -he observed his wife, who was working for him unawares. Annette and -Noémi were lavishing on each other all the little graces with which -Noémi was always well supplied, inspiring in Annette a complex feeling -from which the uneasy thought of Philippe was not absent. And her ear -followed, from the opposite corner of the room, the derisive voice that -knew it was being listened to. -</p> - -<p> -She hated him, she hated him. . . . He represented the deepest part of -her repressed nature, the nature she wished to repress, the good and the -bad, the hard, commanding pride, the need of dominating, the demands of -the will, those of the intelligence, of a sensual, violent body, passion -without love, stronger than love. And as she hated this faun of the -soul, hated it in herself, she hated it in him. But this was to engage -in an unequal combat. There were two against her—he and her own self. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XXXIX">XXXIX</a></h4> - -<p> -Philippe Villard came from the small, independent merchant class. -</p> - -<p> -His father, a printer in a little town, active, bustling, bold, had at -once the energy and the freedom from scruple that are necessary for -success on a vaster scene; but he did not succeed, because for success -there is a line of audacity that one must be able to reach and not go -beyond, and he had always gone beyond it. Managing a local newspaper -that swam on the troubled waters of politics, a Gambettist republican, a -tireless anti-clerical, a great hand at elections, he once exceeded the -limits of libel and blackmailing that are authorized by the law (no, by -custom!) and was condemned and dropped by those whom he had served. Ill -in addition, he saw that he was ruined; his plant was sold and all the -local hatreds were unmuzzled, now that he no longer had the means to -make himself useful or feared. He fought furiously, like a wolf, against -illness, poverty and misfortune. The exasperation made his condition -worse, and he died, expressing with his last breath his implacable -bitterness against the treason of his old companions. The son was ten -years old; and none of these imprecations was lost on him. -</p> - -<p> -His mother, a proud peasant woman from the slopes of the Jura mountains, -accustomed to struggling with an ungrateful soil that was bitten by a -harsh wind, went out by the day as a washerwoman in the canal and -undertook the roughest work. She was as strong as a Percheron mare, -attacking her work with her four limbs and her iron frame, greedy for -gain, but painstaking, honest, hard on herself and close-fisted; she was -feared and sought after; she had a redoubtable tongue, which she -restrained, and people knew that, through her husband's death, she was -the mistress of many family secrets. She made no use of these, but she -possessed them, and it was more prudent to pay for her services than to -do without them. She had no intellectual scruples and was rigorously -active, rather sombre (for in this race Spain has left its blood), with -a limitless passion of energy which, mingled with Gallic -disillusionment, believes in nothing and yet acts as if salvation or -damnation were awaiting it. She loved nothing but her son. She was -ferocious in her love. She did not conceal from him any of the things -about which she held her tongue with other people; she treated him as a -partner. Ambitious for him alone, she sacrificed herself, and he was -going to sacrifice himself—for whom? For <i>her</i> revenge. -(<i>Hers</i>? Yes, her own, that of the son, that of the -mother—all the same thing!) No tenderness, no -indulgence—above all, no whimpering. "Go without things! You will -gloat over it later." When he came home from school—heaven knew by -what efforts of work and diplomacy she obtained for him a scholarship in -the town grammar-school, then at the lycée in the -county-town!—when he came home, thrashed and humiliated by the -little bourgeois boys, the fool-hardy heirs of the hidden spite of their -fathers, she said to him, "You will be stronger than they are later. -They will kiss your feet. Rely on yourself! Don't rely on anyone else!" -</p> - -<p> -He did not rely on anyone else, and he soon made it clear that they -would have to reckon with him. She succeeded in clinging to life until -her son's studies were brilliantly finished and he had taken his first -term in medicine in Paris. He was in the midst of an examination when -she had to take to her bed with an inflammation of the chest. She did -not want to disturb him before he had finished. She died without him. In -her rude handwriting, twisted like the claws of the vine in spring, with -all the dots and accents well marked and in their places, she wrote to -him on a blank sheet carefully cut from a letter from her son, who was -reckless with his paper, "I am going. My boy, keep strong. Do not give -way." -</p> - -<p> -He had not given way. Returning to the country to bury his mother, he -found a small sum of money, collected from day to day, which enabled him -to pay his way for another year. Then, thrown upon himself, he spent -half his days and sometimes his nights earning what the other half -demanded for his subsistence. No task was too much for him. He worked at -natural history for a taxidermist, he served as a sculptor's model, as -an extra boy on Sundays in suburban cafés, or on Saturday nights at -wedding-parties in restaurants. In winter, when he was hungry one -morning, he even took a job under the sewerage commission in a gang of -snow-sweepers. He did not hesitate to have recourse to bold-faced -begging, to charity societies, to accepting humiliating loans which he -could not pay back and which gave mean souls the right to treat him -without consideration for a five-franc piece. . . . (The blackguards! -They didn't try it again after the look he gave them! But then, since -they could not repay themselves with scorn, they did so with hatred, -prudently behind his back: they slandered him.) During a few months of -desperate labor, he went so far as to accept the money that a girl of -the neighborhood offered him. He did not blush at this, for it was not -for himself (he was killing himself with privations), it was for his -success. Of course he had needs! He wanted to take everything, but he -repressed his desire. Later on! He must conquer first. And to conquer he -must live. Live by every means. Victory cleanses everything. And it was -his due. He felt he was a genius. -</p> - -<p> -He attracted the attention of his masters, his comrades. He was given -work to do that was signed by men at the top after they had made a -pretence of touching it up a little. He allowed himself to be exploited -so as to acquire a hold over those who barred the gates to new-comers. -They were in no great hurry to let him in. They respected him, and -respect is a kind of money that enables one to dispense with other -kinds. They appreciated him, oh, yes. But he did not grow fat on this. -In spite of his native strength, the strength of his mother's Jura -mountains, he was on the point of going under from fatigue and -malnutrition when Solange happened upon him. It was at one of those many -charities which she patronized with a sincere though intermittent -generosity, with her heart and her money; a children's clinic. Solange -saw Philippe there, devoting himself with a rage—that rage he felt to -conquer, whenever there was the least chance of it—at the beds of the -little patients who were apparently doomed. He spent nights there and -came away from these battles looking worn and debilitated, but with eyes -flaming with fever and genius. When he had conquered he was almost -handsome and seemed more than good as he sat by the little sufferer whom -he had just saved. Did he love him? It was possible, not certain. But he -had got the best of the disease. -</p> - -<p> -Solange, when she saw Philippe's situation, passed through one of those -periodical crises of "patheticness" in which her whole horizon was -filled by a single object. Whoever wished to profit by this had to lose -no time. Philippe did not lose it. This drowning man grasped the hand -that was held out to him. He even took the arm with it, and he would -have taken the rest if he had not perceived that Solange, in her -infatuation, had no thought of an amorous relation. She loved to feel -exalted, but this in no way disturbed her tranquillity. Philippe had -never seen a woman who was interested in him without being in pursuit of -some interest of her own. The good Solange found her pleasure in -herself. All she asked of others was that they should not gainsay the -image she had formed of them. At heart she did not really want to know -them. She took pains not to see anything in the other person that might -displease her, saying to herself that this was not his "real nature"; -and she accepted as real only what resembled herself. Thus she succeeded -in creating in her own mind a whole universe composed of good, -comfortable souls after her own pattern. Philippe let her go her own way -with a little contempt and a little respect. He did not like stupid -people; and he regarded as such those who did not see the world as it -was; but a goodness that does the good of which it speaks was for him no -everyday spectacle. Whatever their value might be, moral or immoral, the -essential thing was that such people counted. Solange's goodness was not -fictitious. Since she had become aware of Philippe's destitution and -toil, she gave him a pension till he finished his years of study; she -provided him with leisure so that he might work in peace. She did more: -she made use of her extensive relations to interest one of the -influential masters of the Faculty in him, or rather, since this -cautious man had not failed to observe the restless power of the hungry -young wolf, to so arrange things that his interest should not remain -confined <i>intus et in cute</i>, but should show itself in the open. In -the end she brought him into touch with an American oil-king who wanted to -immortalize himself vicariously and opened for him a rapid path to fame. -He laid the foundation of this across the ocean by his audacious feats -of surgery in a palatial hospital founded by this Pharaoh. -</p> - -<p> -During the course of these trying years, however, Solange would -sometimes totally forget her protégé for months, and as a result of -her carelessness the promised pension would cease to come. With all -their good will, the rich cannot understand that some people have to -think of money all the time. Money is a constant anxiety with the poor. -Solange would send Philippe tickets to concerts. Philippe had to swallow -all his pride to remind this charming woman, in her box at the theatre, -of the unpaid pension. He swallowed it. It was sometimes the only -nutriment he had taken during the day. On these occasions Solange would -open her big, surprised eyes: "What's that. . . . Ah, my dear friend, -how astonished I am! The moment I get home . . ." -</p> - -<p> -She would promise, forget it again for a day or two and finally send it, -excusing herself as gracefully as possible. Philippe, maddened by the -delay and the humiliation, would swear that the next time he would die -rather than ask for it again. But dying is not good for people who feel -the necessity of living! And he felt this necessity. . . . He would ask -for it again as often as he was obliged to do so. . . . Solange was -never put out with him. If she often forgot—she had "so much to think -of!"—when he reminded her of it she always took the same pleasure in -giving. -</p> - -<p> -How strange was the relation between this man, young, ardent, hungry for -all the good things of the earth, and this woman, scarcely older than -himself, elegant, pretty, gentle, good enough to eat, who, as the years -passed, were often alone together, without any hint of anything -equivocal in their friendship! The calm Solange maternally advised -Philippe about his clothes, about the little problems of society and the -practical life. Philippe's pride was not ashamed to accept this, to ask -advice and even make her his confidante, to tell her of his ambitions -and his disappointments. He could do so without fear. Solange would hear -nothing that was evil, nothing that was real. What did it matter? She -listened, and she said afterwards, with her kind smile, "You want to -frighten me, but I don't believe you." -</p> - -<p> -For she only believed what was not true. -</p> - -<p> -And this man, pitiless to everything that was mediocre, made only one -exception in life: for Solange. He abstained from judging her. -</p> - -<p> -Preceded by a reputation of the American kind, flashy, but substantial, -and based on indisputable realities, he had come back to Paris seven or -eight years before. The support of his patron, bringing official favor -with it in the wake of his insolent dollars, had opened a way for him in -spite of the triple barriers piled up by routine, jealousy and the just -rights of those who had been long awaiting their turn to enter. Whether -it was just or not, he was advanced over them all. Philippe had not -permitted himself to accept any honors or advantages he had not -deserved; but, knowing that he deserved them, he did not trouble himself -about the means by which he got them. He despised men too much not to -borrow their own contemptible weapons, when it was necessary, in order -to get the better of them. He did not despise a newspaper puff that -pierced people's ears like the brass instruments that used to accompany -the village tooth-pullers on their platforms. He was a great man for -fashionable exhibitions, first nights, varnishing-days, official galas. -He lent himself to sensational interviews. He himself wrote—one is -never served better than by oneself—and, through one or two examples, -showed those who contradicted him that he could handle the pen as well -as the knife. A counsel for amateurs! . . . Never be ambiguous! His way -of holding out his hand meant, "Alliance or war?" He allowed no means to -escape him by being neutral. -</p> - -<p> -At the same time, a habit of working desperately, with no more -consideration for himself than he had for others, an indifference to -risks, brilliant results that could not be denied, made the internes in -the hospital he directed his enthusiastic partisans. He indulged in rash -communications to the Academy that aroused the exasperated incredulity -of comfortably settled souls who did not like to be turned upside down: -Homeric jousts from which he almost always emerged with the decisive -word and always with the last one. -</p> - -<p> -He terrified the timid. He had no regard for individuals when the -interests of science or humanity seemed to him at stake. He would have -liked to experiment on criminals, destroy monsters, sterilize the -abnormal, undertake heroic operations on living subjects. He loathed -sentimentality. He did not give way to sympathy with his patients, and -he did not allow them to pity themselves. Their groans had no interest -for him. But when he was able to save them he did save them—harshly; -he cut down to the quick to cure the living man. He was hard of heart, but -his hands were gentle. People were afraid of him and they pursued him. -He fleeced the rich and asked nothing of the poor. -</p> - -<p> -He lived in a large way, for he had acquired the taste for luxury. He -could give it up, however, on a day's notice; but, leading this life, he -led it whole-heartedly. His wife was part of his luxury. He enjoyed them -both and he never demanded of them anything they could not give. He did -not ask Noémi to share in his intellectual life; he did not give her a -chance to do so. Noémi did not care; if she had the rest, she had, as -she thought, the important part. He had made up his mind that in any -case this was all that women ought to have. A woman who thought was a -cumbersome bit of furniture. -</p> - -<p> -Why, then, was he so immediately captivated by Annette? -</p> - -<p> -Through that which resembled himself. Through the quality in the Annette -of this period that was like himself, the quality he alone could -perceive. At the first crossing of their glances, as their first -responses struck, steel against steel, he said to himself, "She sees -these people as I see them. She's one of my kind." -</p> - -<p> -Of his kind? It scarcely seemed so, to judge by the facts. Annette had -fallen out of the social sphere into which Philippe had succeeded in -elbowing himself, and they had met each other, in passing, on one of the -rungs of the ladder. But at this particular moment they were on an equal -footing, they both felt that they were strangers in this world, -adversaries of this world, that they both really belonged to another -race, once mistress of the soil, but now dispossessed, scattered over -the earth and almost vanished. After all, who knows the mysteries of -races and their vicissitudes, that mingling of all, in the ultimate -future towards which, as it seems, humanity is moving for the final -triumph of mediocrity? . . . But it has its unexpected resurgences, and -sometimes the former master of the soil resumes his estate for a day. -Whether it was his estate or not, Philippe claimed it as his own. And in -this way he had just appropriated Annette. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XL">XL</a></h4> - -<p> -When Annette returned to her apartment again, with lowered head, heavy -with thought, she went to bed without speaking. She tried to make her -mind a blank, but she could not sleep. She had to struggle to escape -from a certain mental picture, for the moment she became drowsy the -picture appeared at the door of her imagination. To forget it she tried -to fix her mind on her everyday affairs: they did not interest her. Then -she appealed against the threatening invasion to an ally whom she -usually feared to invoke, because by doing so she ran the ride of -stirring up too many past troubles: Julien and the world of thoughts, -more fictitious than real, which her regrets and dreams had grouped -about the beloved name. They returned for a moment and fell back again, -frozen. She persisted in trying to grasp them by force. She held in her -arms only withered sheaves. A hot sun had dried up their sap. In her -desire to revive them Annette, with her feverish hands, only burned them -up. She was agitated, turning and turning her pillow. But she had to -sleep for the sake of to-morrow's work. She took a sleeping-powder and -fell into oblivion. But when she awoke after three or four hours, her -anxiety was still there. It seemed to her that even during her sleep it -had not left her. -</p> - -<p> -During the next day and the days that followed, her anxiety persisted. -She came and went, gave her lessons, talked, laughed as usual. The -well-equipped machine went on of itself. But her soul was troubled. -</p> - -<p> -One grey day, as she was crossing Paris, everything suddenly became -bright. On the other side of the street Philippe Villard was passing. -She went home filled with joy. -</p> - -<p> -When she made up her mind to get to the bottom of this joy she was -thunderstruck. It was as if she had discovered a cancer in herself. . . . -So once more she had been caught in the trap. Love? Love for a man who -could only be for her another cause for useless suffering, a man whom -she was sure was dangerous, heartless, a man who could not belong to -her, who belonged to someone else, a man she could not love because she -loved someone else. Someone else? Yes, yes, she still loved Julien. -Well, if she loved him, how was it possible for her to love another man? -She did love him. . . . But how, how could her heart give itself to two -persons at once? Give itself wholly to each without dividing itself? For -when she gave her heart Annette gave it completely. . . . She had a -feeling that she was prostituting herself. To be sure, to surrender her -body would have seemed to her less shameful than to surrender her heart -to two loves at once. Wasn't she sincere, loyal to herself? . . . Of -course she was. She did not know that she had more than one heart, that -she was more than one being. In the forest of a soul there co-exist -thickets of thoughts, jungles of desire, twenty different essences. -Ordinarily one does not distinguish them: they are asleep. But when the -wind passes over them their branches dash against one another. . . . The -clash of passions had long since stirred this multiplicity to life in -Annette. She was at once a dutiful and a passionately proud woman, a -passionate mother, a passionate mistress. Mistress? Mistresses? The -forest in the wind with its branches flung out toward all the points of -heaven. . . . Annette, humiliated by the oppression of the force that -was disposing of her without her consent, thought: "What is the use of -willing and struggling for years if one moment is enough to ruin -everything? Where does this force come from?" -</p> - -<p> -For she repudiated it, furiously, as something alien. Didn't she -recognize it as of her own substance? Ah, that was even more -overwhelming. How escape from herself? -</p> - -<p> -She was not the sort of woman who yields passively to an inner fatality -that she despised. She determined to stifle a feeling that mortified -her. And with the help of her work she would have succeeded had it not -been for Noémi. -</p> - -<p> -She received a letter in the large handwriting of this little person -who, although she had made a study of worldly elegance, was unable to -disguise the cold resolution that lay behind it. A few friendly lines -inviting her to dinner. Annette excused herself because of her work. -Noémi repeated the invitation, expressing this time the warm desire she -felt to see her again and leaving her to choose the evening. Annette, -determined not to risk a danger of which she had become aware, declined -the invitation again, pleading her extreme fatigue at the end of her -days. She thought the matter was settled, but the little Pandarus, who, -when he is bored and malicious, is one of the thousand forms of love, -left Noémi no peace until she had introduced Annette into her -sheepfold. And one evening when Annette, returned from her lessons, was -preparing dinner—the hour that idle people always choose to make -their calls—who should appear but Noémi, chirping, assuring her of -her eternal friendship. While Annette, embarrassed at appearing at such a -disadvantage, was beguiled by the affectionate manner of this woman in -whom she unconsciously loved the reflection of "the other one," she held -her ground, in spite of Noémi's entreaties, and absolutely refused to -dine with her. But she could not do less than promise to return her -call, carefully making sure of the hours when she would be certain to -find Noémi alone. Noémi perceived how anxious Annette was to avoid -Philippe; she put it down to timidity and a lack of sympathy with him. -Her own sympathy increased. When she was at home again she indiscreetly -poured out to Philippe an account of her call, dwelling, with the -charming perfidy of the best of friends, upon everything which, to her -mind, might tend to depreciate a woman in Philippe's eyes: the poverty, -the disorder, the odor of ink and cooking—in a word, Annette in the -kitchen. Philippe, who knew all about Annette's gallant history and who -knew still better the odor of poverty, made other reflections than those -he was expected to make, but he kept them to himself. -</p> - -<p> -It was not altogether by chance that Annette, a few days later, as she -was coming out of Noémi's house, met Philippe in the street on his way -home. As she had not expected to meet him, she felt she had a right not -to combat the secret joy that ran through her. They exchanged a few -words. While they stopped to talk, a young woman passed to whom Philippe -bowed. Annette recognized her. She was the intelligent actress who was -playing Maslova just then. Annette was attracted to her, and this -attraction was evident in her look. Philippe asked: "Do you know her?" -</p> - -<p> -"I have seen her," she said, "in <i>Resurrection</i>." -</p> - -<p> -"Ah," he replied, with a contemptuous curve of his mouth. -</p> - -<p> -"Don't you like her acting?" -</p> - -<p> -"Her acting isn't the point." -</p> - -<p> -"Is it the play then? You don't like it?" -</p> - -<p> -"No," said Philippe. And seeing that Annette was curious to know his -reasons, he added, "Let's walk a little way together, shall we? It's -rather unconventional, but conventions were not made for us." -</p> - -<p> -They walked along together. Annette was embarrassed and flattered. -Philippe talked about the play with a mixture of hostility and humor -such as Tolstoy himself—it was a fair enough turn of the -wheel—had often employed in regard to people he did not like. He -interrupted himself, amused at his severity, "I am not fair. . . . When -I see a play I see those who are watching it. I see under their -membranes, and the spectacle is not beautiful." -</p> - -<p> -"It is with some people," said Annette. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, there are some people who have the gift of making the misery of -the world seem beautiful. This saves them the trouble of remedying it. -These good idealists manage to have many a sweet hour with the -misfortunes of others. They serve them as a means for artistic or -charitable emotions of the most tranquillizing kind, but they are of -even more service to the villains who exploit them. Their sentimentality -flies its protecting flag over patriotic leagues, leagues for -repopulation, the founding of missions, colonial wars and other -philanthropies. . . . The epoch of the teary eye! . . . There is no eye -that is colder and more self-interested! The epoch of the kind -employer—you have read Pierre Hamp?—who builds a church, a -slaughter-house, a hospital and a brothel near his factory! Their lives -are divided into two parts: one consists of talking about civilization, -progress, democracy, the other of the sordid exploitation and -destruction of the whole future of the world, the corruption of the -race, the annihilation of the other races of Asia and Africa. . . . -After this they go and melt with emotion over Maslova and take their -afternoon nap to the soft harmonies of Debussy. . . . Look out when the -awakening comes! Ferocious hatreds are piling up. The catastrophe is -coming. . . . So much the better! All their dirty medicine does is to -keep diseases going. Some day they will have to come to surgery." -</p> - -<p> -"Will the patient recover?" -</p> - -<p> -"I take away the disease. The patient has to take his chance!" -</p> - -<p> -A joke. Annette smiled. Philippe threw her a sidelong glance. "It -doesn't frighten you?" -</p> - -<p> -"I am not ill," said Annette. -</p> - -<p> -He stopped and looked at her. "No, you are not. In your presence one -breathes the fragrance of health. It frees me from my physical and moral -infections. The latter are the worst. Excuse my diatribe! But I've come -from a meeting, a dispute with a gang of hypocrites over the official -support of disease—that is, over hygiene. I was furious and -suffocating with disgust, and when I saw you with your clear eyes, -walking along so freely, with everything about you so proud and -wholesome, I selfishly drank in a whiff of your air. There! It's better -now. Thank you." -</p> - -<p> -"So I'm promoted to the rank of a doctor. And after what you have just -been saying about them?" -</p> - -<p> -"Doctor, no. Medicine. Oxygen." -</p> - -<p> -"You have a direct way with people!" -</p> - -<p> -"This is the way I class them: inspiration, expiration, those who bring -you to life and those who kill you, whom you must kill." -</p> - -<p> -"Whom do you want to kill now?" -</p> - -<p> -"Now?" He took her up. "Don't you think I have enough to do with my -patients?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, no, I couldn't help saying that," replied Annette, laughing. "It -was my old classic blood. . . . But may I ask you with whom you were -angry when I met you?" -</p> - -<p> -"I should so much like to forget it, now that I'm with you. To put it -briefly, it was about a block of unsanitary houses that has been a -breeding-ground for cancer and tuberculosis ever since the time of Henry -IV. The finished product: eighty per cent infected during the last -twenty years. I had brought the matter before the sanitary board and -demanded radical measures, that the buildings should be expropriated and -torn down. They seemed to agree with me and asked me to draw up a -report. I drew up the report, went back and found that the oracles had -changed their minds. . . . An impressive report, dear and eminent -colleague, a fine document. We must think it over. We must look into -this. There is no doubt that these people have died, but were their -deaths really due to the houses they lived in? . . . One of them brings -me some certificates (manufactured how?) proving, with the complicity of -various families who had been bribed by the owner, that one man had -already bought his ticket to the cemetery when he came and settled in -the waiting-room, that in another case the cancer was the result of an -accident. Another contests the idea that old houses are less sanitary -than new ones and says they are larger and more airy; he gives his own -as an example. . . . We must make things sanitary, not destroy. -Moderation in all things. A good cleaning will be enough; the owner -promises to have them disinfected. . . . Besides, we are poor, our -pockets are empty, we haven't the money to expropriate them. . . . Ah! -if it were a question of making a new gun! . . . But, after all, cancer -kills more surely than a gun. . . . To finish the farce, one of the -augurs ended by talking about beauty. It seems that since these -buildings belonged to the period of Henry IV, they ought to be preserved -for the sake of history and art. . . . I am fond of art myself, and I -can show you some pictures in my own house, ancient and modern both; but -age (unless we are talking about beautiful Madame So-and-So) is not the -mark of beauty; and, beautiful or not, I shall never admit that the past -should poison the present. Of all hypocrisies, the aesthetic hypocrisy -revolts me the most, for it tries to create nobility out of its own -barrenness. So I said some pretty stiff things on that score. . . . In -the middle of the discussion a colleague motioned to me, drew me aside -and said, 'Don't you know that old beetle who feeds on the corpses -of his tenants is an intimate friend of the president of that great -committee of commerce and food-supply which brings about elections and -coalitions, one of those grizzled dignitaries who rule over our democratic -banquets and conventions, the invisible man out of whom the rabble -constructs the tottering masonry—freemasonry—of our Republic? -This friend of the people doesn't want to have the people turned out of -their tomb . . . because, and this is the best of all . . . because of -his philanthropy. . . .' At the end they hand me a petition from the -tenants, drawn up in fine style, protesting against this desire to turn -them out of their quarters! What do you expect me to do against all -these people? The augurs laugh, they say. So I laughed. But I added that -one shouldn't keep a good joke to oneself, that I was not an egoist, and -that I intended to share it to-morrow with the readers of the <i>Matin</i>. -They cried out at this, but I shall do as I said. I know what to expect; -every knife will be raised against me. . . . The disciples of -Hippocrates, to whom I've just given a good drubbing, will miss no -chance. They have their own way of getting back at me. But, as you say, -'War,' my Lady Warrior! How about the other evening at Solange's? All -this seems to amuse you?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, it's splendid. I like this, fighting against injustice. I should -have liked to be a man." -</p> - -<p> -"There is no need to be a man. You have done your share. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -"I have never complained of my share in the struggle. It's only the -suffocation. Our lot is to fight in a cave, but you fight in the open -air, on a mountain-top." -</p> - -<p> -"Ah! that quivering of the nostrils! A horse sniffing the powder. I've -seen that already. I noticed it the other evening." -</p> - -<p> -"You laughed at me the other evening." -</p> - -<p> -"Not at all. It was too much like myself for me to laugh." -</p> - -<p> -"You harassed me; you started me off." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, I saw it at once. . . . I wasn't mistaken. . . ." "Just the same, -you were contemptuous enough in the beginning." -</p> - -<p> -"How the devil could I have expected to find you, to find you at -Solange's house?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, but what about yourself? Why were you there?" -</p> - -<p> -"It's another matter with me." -</p> - -<p> -"A liking for sentimentality?" -</p> - -<p> -"It's your turn to tease. . . . Poor Solange! . . . No, don't let's talk -about her. I know everything that can be said. But Solange is taboo." -</p> - -<p> -She did not question him, but she looked at him. -</p> - -<p> -"I'll tell you some other time. . . . Yes, I owe her a great deal." -</p> - -<p> -They had come to a stop. They were about to separate. Annette smiled. -"You are not as bad as you seem." -</p> - -<p> -"And perhaps you're not as good!" -</p> - -<p> -"That makes an average." -</p> - -<p> -He looked her directly in the eyes. "Will you?" -</p> - -<p> -He was no longer joking. The blood streamed into Annette's cheeks, and -she could not find a way to reply. Philippe's eyes held her and would -not let her go. Was he saying something? Was he not saying anything? On -his lips she read, "I want you." -</p> - -<p> -He bowed and went on. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XLI">XLI</a></h4> - -<p> -Annette remained alone in a torrent of flame. She walked straight ahead -and ten minutes later she found herself at the point from which she had -started. Without realizing it, she had made the complete circuit of the -iron fence of the Luxembourg Gardens. She came to herself to find that -she was all on fire, with the three flaming words engraved on a black -background. She made an effort to efface them. Had he uttered them? . . . -She saw again the impassive face, she tried to disbelieve it. But the -imprint was there, and her resistance weakened and suddenly gave way. -Well, it was decreed. . . . She knew it in advance. . . Instead of -revolting, as she would have thought of doing an hour before, she felt -relieved. The die was cast. . . . -</p> - -<p> -She went home with her mind clear, no longer feverish. She had decided. -She knew that whatever Philippe wished he would do, and what Philippe -wished she wished also. She was free, nothing held her back. . . . The -thought of Noémi? She owed her only one thing, the truth. She would not -lie. She would take what belonged to her. . . . What belonged to her? -The other woman's husband. . . . But blind passion whispered to her that -Noémi had stolen him from her. -</p> - -<p> -She did nothing to hasten the inevitable. She was sure that Philippe -would come. She waited. -</p> - -<p> -He came. He had chosen the hour when he knew that she would be alone. -</p> - -<p> -As she went to open the door she was seized with terror. But it had to -be as it was. She opened the door, revealing nothing of what she felt, -unless her paleness did so. He entered the room. They remained standing -before each other, a few steps apart, their heads lowered; then he -looked at her with his serious eyes. After a silence he said, "I love -you, Rivière." -</p> - -<p> -And this name of Rivière in his mouth brought up the image of a stream -of water. -</p> - -<p> -Annette, trembling, motionless, replied, "I don't know whether I love -you. I don't think I do, but I know that I am yours." -</p> - -<p> -The gleam of a smile passed over Philippe's grave face. "Good," he said. -"You don't lie. Neither do I." -</p> - -<p> -He took a step towards her. She drew back instinctively and found -herself leaning against the wall of the room, defenceless, the palms of -her hands pressed out behind her, and her legs gave way beneath her. He -had stopped and he looked at her. "Don't be afraid," he said. There was -something tender in his hard look. -</p> - -<p> -Like a captive who accepts her fate calmly, she said, with a shadow of -scorn, "What do you want of me? Is it my body you want? I will not -dispute with you over that. Is that the only thing you want?" -</p> - -<p> -He took another step and sat down on a low chair at her feet. His cheek -brushed her dress. He took Annette's hand, which she limply abandoned to -him. He breathed in its fragrance, passed his lips over the fingertips -and, bending down, placed it on his head, on his eyes. "This is what I -want." -</p> - -<p> -Under her fingers, Annette felt the rough, bushy hair, the swelling of -the forehead and the beating temples. This imperious man was placing -himself under her protection. She leaned towards him and he raised his -face. It was their first kiss. -</p> - -<p> -His arms encircled Annette, who had dropped on her knees beside him and -no longer resisted, as if she had no breath left, and Philippe, violent -as he was, had no thought of taking advantage of his victory. "I want -everything," he said, "all of you, mistress, friend, companion—my -woman altogether." -</p> - -<p> -Annette extricated herself. Noémi's image had risen before her. A -moment before it had been she who had driven her from her consciousness. -But that Philippe should do the same thing wounded her in a way, wounded -her in that instinctive freemasonry of women who, even as enemies, find -themselves leagued against the aggressiveness of man—one body in -common. -</p> - -<p> -"You cannot," said Annette. "You belong to another." -</p> - -<p> -He shrugged his shoulders. "There's nothing of me that she possesses." -</p> - -<p> -"She has your name and your faith." -</p> - -<p> -"What does the name matter? You have the rest." -</p> - -<p> -"I don't care about the name, but I must have your faith. I give it and -I ask for it." -</p> - -<p> -"I am ready to give it to you." -</p> - -<p> -But Annette, who had asked for it, felt a certain revolt when it was -offered to her. "No! no! Do you mean to take it away from her who has -shared your life for years and give it to me whom you have only seen -three times?" -</p> - -<p> -"It has not required three times for me to see you." -</p> - -<p> -"You don't know me." -</p> - -<p> -"I do know you. I have learned to see into life quickly. Life goes by -and no moment ever appears twice. You must make up your mind on the spot -or you can never make it up. You are passing, Rivière, and if I do not -take you I lose you. I take you." -</p> - -<p> -"You may be making a mistake." -</p> - -<p> -"Perhaps. I know that when one makes a decision one often makes a -mistake. But in not deciding one always makes a mistake. I should never -forgive myself the error of having seen you without determining to -possess you." -</p> - -<p> -"What do you know about me?" -</p> - -<p> -"More than you think. I know that you have been rich and that you are -poor, that you had a youth filled with all the pleasures of wealth and -that you were ruined and cast out of your world, that you have struggled -and not weakened. I know what your struggle has been, for I underwent it -myself, every day, for thirty years of my life, a hand-to-hand struggle, -and twenty times I was on the point of giving in. You have held out. As -for me, I was used to it. I have known abject poverty from the cradle. -You had a thin skin, and you were pampered and made much of. You did not -yield. You have never accepted any shameful compromise. You never tried -to escape the struggle by any feminine means, seduction or the honest -expedient of a marriage for money." -</p> - -<p> -"Do you imagine it has been offered to me so many times?" -</p> - -<p> -"That is because they knew very well, even the meanest of them, that you -are not a person to be bought by contract." -</p> - -<p> -"Inalienable, yes." -</p> - -<p> -"I know that after having loved and had a child you refused to be the -wife of your child's father. I do not need to know the reasons of your -heart. But I do know that in the face of a cowardly society, you dared -to demand, not the right to enjoy, but the right to suffer, the right to -have a son and bring him up, in your poverty, alone. It was nothing to -have demanded this right, but you have exercised it, all by yourself, -for thirteen years. And knowing, through my own experience, what these -thirteen years mean in suffering and daily effort, I see you before me, -intact, straight, proud, without a trace of wear and tear. You have -escaped two defeats, that of failure and that of bitterness . . . I -myself have not escaped the mark of the latter. . . . I am a connoisseur -of the battle of life. I know what the quality of a character like yours -is worth. That serious smile, those clear eyes, the calm line of the -lids, the loyalty of those hands, that tranquil harmony—and, under it -all, the burning fire, the joyous thrill of the struggle, even if one is -beaten. (It doesn't seem to matter! One goes on fighting . . .) Do you -suppose that a man like myself does not know the value of a woman like -you? Or that, knowing it, he should not be ready for anything to win -it? . . . Rivière, I want you. I need you. Listen! I am not trying to -deceive you. Although I desire your good, I do not want you for your own -good, but for my own. I am not offering you any advantages, only more -ordeals. . . . You don't know about my life. . . . Sit down here beside -me, my beauty of the eyebrows!" -</p> - -<p> -Seated on the floor, she raised her eyes to his. He held her two hands -in a firm clasp while he talked to her. "I have a name, I have success, -I have money and everything it gives. But you don't know how I got them -or how I keep them. I took them by force and I hold them by force. I -compelled my fate, if there is a fate. I succeeded in spite of things -and in spite of men. And I have never tried, or desired, to win -forgiveness for my success by bandaging the wounded self-esteem and the -interests that have been trampled upon as I passed. My dear colleagues -expect that success at least will have its narcotic effect upon me. -There hasn't been any such effect. They have tried in vain to flatter -me; they feel that I am not and never will be one of them. I can't -forget what I have seen on the other side of the fence, the innumerable -rascalities and iniquities. I have had time to meditate on the social -lies for which the best watchdog has always been the intellectual class, -in spite of what it pretends and what people expect from it. Apart from -a few knowing fellows who, where their art and thought are in question, -have the reputation of respecting nothing, but who, outside their own -bailiwick, tip their hats very politely to the reigning imbecility. I -have had the conspicuous folly never to pay court to it. At this very -moment I am planning an attack upon some of their sacred impostures, -impostures that condemn thousands of beings to poverty and endless -misery. I am going to make the three heads of Cerberus howl, the three -hypocrisies of morality, patriotism and religion. I shall tell you all -about it later. I shall be beaten, too, I know. But I shall fight on -just the same, for the joy of it, for the difficulty, and because it has -to be done. . . . You see why your words, the other evening, brought me -a message you never foresaw. Your words are mine. The mouth ought to be -mine." -</p> - -<p> -Annette gave it to him. He took her forehead and her Cheeks tenderly in -his strong hands. "Rivière, I need you. I never expected to find you. -Now that I have you I shall hold you." -</p> - -<p> -"Hold me firmly! I am afraid I may escape." -</p> - -<p> -"I know how to keep you. I offer you my hard life, my enemies, my -dangers." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, you know me. But none of this can be mine. It is not yours to -dispose of. It belongs to your Noémi." -</p> - -<p> -"What would she do with it? She doesn't want to know anything about it. -She ignores all truth, everything that is painful in life." -</p> - -<p> -Annette looked at Philippe, and he read in her eyes the question she -withheld. -</p> - -<p> -"You are thinking, 'Why did he marry her, then?' The woman lies, yes, I -know it. Her whole body is a lie, from the roots of her hair to the tips -of her nails. Well, the odd thing is that I took her for that very -reason. It is almost the reason why I love her. When falsehood is as -perfect an art as that it deserves a good theatre. . . . (Don't we know -that the theatre, that almost all art, lies, except in the case of a few -freaks who bewilder their confrères; then the confrères say that they -are not artists, that they ruin the trade.) If the world is a lie, at -least we have the right to demand that the lie shall be pleasant. -Everything considered, I prefer for my satisfaction and my society those -who lie prettily. They don't take me in. I see through them. Noémi's -grace is as artificial as her sentiments. But she makes a success of it. -She does me credit. I enjoy it when I come home in the evening with my -eyes befouled by the cutting up of spoiled meat. She is like laughing -water. I bathe in it. Let her lie! It is of no importance. If she spoke -the truth she would have nothing to say." -</p> - -<p> -"You are hard. She loves you." -</p> - -<p> -"No doubt, and I love her too." -</p> - -<p> -"If you love her, why do you need me?" -</p> - -<p> -"I love her in her own way." -</p> - -<p> -"That's a great deal." -</p> - -<p> -"A great deal for her, perhaps. It's not much for me." -</p> - -<p> -"But can I give you what she gives you?" -</p> - -<p> -"You are not a toy." -</p> - -<p> -"I should like to be a toy, too. Life is a game." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, but you believe in it. You are one of those players who take the -game seriously." -</p> - -<p> -"So are you." -</p> - -<p> -"Because I wish to do so." -</p> - -<p> -"How do you know that I too don't wish to do so?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, let's wish together!" -</p> - -<p> -"I don't want a happiness that is built on ruins. I have suffered. I -don't want to cause suffering." -</p> - -<p> -"All life is bought with suffering. Every happiness in nature is built -upon ruins. In the end everything is ruined. At least we can have built -something!" -</p> - -<p> -"I can't make up my mind to sacrifice another person. Poor little -Noémi!" -</p> - -<p> -"She would have less pity if she had you under her feet." -</p> - -<p> -"I suppose so. But she loves you, and to me it is a crime to kill a -love." -</p> - -<p> -"Whether you wished it or not, it's done now. Your presence has killed -it." -</p> - -<p> -"You think of nothing but yourself." -</p> - -<p> -"No one thinks of anything but himself in love." -</p> - -<p> -"No, no, that's not true. I think of myself, of you, of the woman who -loves you, of everything that you love and everything that I love. I -should like my love to be good and full of joy for everyone." -</p> - -<p> -"Love is a duel. If you look to the right or the left you are lost. Look -straight before you into your adversary's eyes." -</p> - -<p> -"My adversary?" -</p> - -<p> -"I." -</p> - -<p> -"You are indeed, but I don't fear you. But Noémi is not my adversary. -She has done me no harm. Can I come into her life and destroy it?" -</p> - -<p> -"Would it be better to lie to her?" -</p> - -<p> -"Deceive her? Far better to destroy her! . . . Or destroy me. Renounce." -</p> - -<p> -"You will not renounce." -</p> - -<p> -"How do you know?" -</p> - -<p> -"Women like you never renounce through weakness." -</p> - -<p> -"Why shouldn't it be through strength?" -</p> - -<p> -"I will not admit that there is any strength in abdicating. I love you -and you love me. I defy you to renounce." -</p> - -<p> -"Don't defy me!" -</p> - -<p> -"You love me." -</p> - -<p> -"I love you." -</p> - -<p> -"Well?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, what you say is true, I can't, I can't renounce." -</p> - -<p> -"Then?" -</p> - -<p> -"Then so be it!" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XLII">XLII</a></h4> - -<p> -They had not yet said anything to the "other woman." -</p> - -<p> -Annette had sworn to herself that she would not belong to Philippe till -he had spoken to Noémi. But the strength of passion had been too much -for her resolution. No one appoints the hour for passion. It seizes its -own. And now it was Annette who restrained Philippe. She dreaded his -implacability. -</p> - -<p> -Philippe would not have scrupled to leave Noémi in ignorance. He did -not respect her enough to feel that he owed her the truth. But if he was -obliged to tell it, he meant to tell it without stopping to consider -her. He was a terrible man, terribly without kindness when a passion had -seized upon him. Nothing else existed. The love that he had felt for -Noémi was that of a master for a valuable slave, and indeed she had -never been anything more than this for him. Like many women she had -adapted herself to this; when the slave holds the master nothing exceeds -her power. She is everything until the day comes when she ceases to be -anything. Noémi knew this, but she felt confident in her youth and her -charm for many more years. After us the deluge! Besides, she had been on -the watch. She had known of Philippe's passing infidelities. She had not -attached much importance to them because she had wisely realized that -they were momentary. She simply consoled herself with the luxury of -small revenges of which she said nothing to him. She had deceived him in -a temper on one occasion, one sole occasion when Philippe's -unfaithfulness had stung her more than usual. She had enjoyed it very -little; she had even been rather disgusted. But no matter, they were -quits. Afterwards she had been more affectionate to her husband than -before. It gave her satisfaction to say to herself, as she embraced him, -"My dear, I am lying to you. This will teach you! You're it, this time!" -</p> - -<p> -The fear she would have had of Philippe, if he had learned the truth, -added to the interest. Philippe knew nothing definite, no facts, but he -read the lie in her eyes. Whether Noémi had deceived him or not, he -knew she was thinking about it. And she saw a flash pass through his -eyes; his hands might have crushed her. But he knew nothing; he would -never know anything; she closed her eyes with the languorous air of a -dove. -</p> - -<p> -He said brutally, "Look at me." -</p> - -<p> -She had time to assume an innocent expression. He knew it was -false—and he did not resist it. -</p> - -<p> -He was not angry with her, but if he had caught her in the act he would -have broken her back. He did not expect from her what she could not give -him, frankness and faithfulness. Since she pleased him, and as long as -she pleased him, all was well. But he considered himself free to break -with her when she no longer pleased him. -</p> - -<p> -Annette had more scruples. She was a woman, and she knew better what was -going on in Noémi's heart. Noémi might be false and vain and she might -deceive Philippe, but she loved him. No, for her it was not just a game, -as he had said it was. She was bound to him as if he were a part of her -own flesh, not merely by the fiery bond of sensual pleasure, but from -the bottom of her heart, for good or evil. Good and evil. In love -nothing counts but the strength of love, that imperious magnet that -draws soul and body together, one being into another being. She clung to -him as the aim and purpose of her life, as what she had wanted, wanted, -wanted through long years. A woman does not always know why she has -fallen in love. But because she has fallen in love she cannot liberate -herself. She has expended too much of her strength and her desire to be -able to transfer them to another object. She lives like a parasite on -the being she has chosen. It would be necessary to cut into them both to -separate them. -</p> - -<p> -A suspicion began to eat its way into Noémi. A mere nothing, at first, -the nibbling of a mouse. There was no change in their life. Philippe, -hard as ever, always in a hurry, with little desire to talk, listened to -her without hearing her, absorbed, with a flame in his eyes. Just at -this time he was deep in a very disagreeable affair, a bitter -controversy in which he had involved himself. Noémi knew about it, but -the last thing she wanted was to be kept informed of these bothersome -matters. When he was in the midst of them he thought of nothing else, -and he neglected her. She had only to wait and let him fast; he would -come back to her later with more appetite than ever. But he was fasting -too long now! At other times she had amused herself by enticing him in a -way that moved Philippe to rebuff her, for it annoyed him to be -distracted when he was engrossed in something; but although she had -protested loudly at his rudeness she had not been angry. She had been -like a child playing with a fire-cracker; the more noise it made the -more it diverted her. But this time, calamitously, the fire-cracker had -not gone off. . . . Noémi's provocations had met with nothing but -indifference. Philippe did not even notice them. . . . The mouse of her -suspicion went away, came back, took up its abode in her. It nibbled so -far that it reached the quick. There came a day when Noémi cried out. -</p> - -<p> -They were both in bed, one morning, side by side. His eyes were open. -She had just awakened, but she pretended to be asleep and she watched -him. Instinctively she felt that the reflection of another face was -passing over this one. (For, unaware of it as we may be, the outer -casing of the mind is moulded by the image that dwells in it.) Her -jealous attention was instantly caught. From under her lowered lids her -eyes pierced him like a gimlet as she lay there, motionless, continuing -to breathe regularly as if she were sleeping; she keenly studied this -man who was so far away, so near, this man who belonged to her, this -eternal stranger whose thigh was touching her own and between whom and -herself lay an impassable world. No, she was not mistaken, there was some -other anxiety in his mind aside from his ideas. . . . Anxiety? . . . She -saw him smile. He was thinking of another woman. To snatch him -away from this phantom, to test her own power, she groaned as if she was -dreaming and rolled over against him. He drew away from this body that -was seeking him, assured himself that she was asleep, rose noiselessly, -dressed and went out. She had not moved. . . . But the door was not -closed before she sat up in bed with her face distorted. She beat her -breasts with her little fists, stifling a cry of rage and anguish. -</p> - -<p> -From this moment she was a huntress. Tense, quivering, she looked about, -she sought the scent. The nails of her clenched hands hurt her; she was -burning to tear the enemy to pieces. . . . Oh, silently, gently. . . . -To tear the woman's heart out. . . . But she could not find this heart. -Where was it hidden? She beat the woods, explored with feverish -minuteness the circle of his acquaintances. With her painted, youthful -smile hiding her sharp teeth, she did not miss the least alteration of -Philippe's face in the presence of the other sex, while she watched the -hands, the eyes, the vocal inflections of every one of them, while the -hunting-dogs that she carried in her heart were constantly casting about -for the scent. . . . But the trail was always false and the animal -escaped. -</p> - -<p> -The strange aberration persisted which, from the beginning, had led her -to place Annette outside the field of her suspicions. For weeks she had -forgotten her. Annette never appeared. She felt guilty and, far from -being proud, she was humiliated at the thought of Noémi because of her -secret victory, her stolen victory. She avoided any reappearance at the -Villards' house, and she would have found plenty of excuses if Noémi -had expressed any desire to see her again. But Noémi expressed nothing -of the kind; she had too much on her mind to remember Annette. -</p> - -<p> -She had tried in van to convince herself that Philippe's caprice would -pass. But, far from passing, the all too evident symptoms of his -disaffection became even more marked: a cold inattention to what she -said and how she looked, to the very presence of his little wife, at -times a complete indifference—even when Noémi tried to force the fact -of her existence upon him, a bored weariness, an unconcealed disgust -that avoided any importunate contact. . . . She quivered with rage and -slighted love! . . . She could not hide from herself any longer the -seriousness of this misfortune. She became frantic. But she was careful -always to force herself not to show it. . . . Always, always to be gay, -sure of herself and of him, always to keep offering him the bait which -he would not even look at! She was eating her heart out. . . . And -against this intangible enemy there rose within her a furious hatred. -Unable as she was to lay hold of her, she could have beaten her -own head against the wall. She had watched everyone, everyone, in -vain—everyone but Annette. Annette was the last person she would -have thought of. -</p> - -<p> -And it was Annette who betrayed herself. -</p> - -<p> -She was walking along the street when, twenty steps away, she saw Noémi -coming towards her. Noémi did not see her. She was walking with her -eyes empty, her head bent; her pretty face was pale and looked older and -careworn. She was not conscious of herself at this, moment or of -anything about her; for days she had been like a monomaniac who, with a -dejected rage, turns the grindstone of a fixed idea. Annette was shocked -at the sight of her. She might have passed close beside her without being -noticed, or have retraced her steps, but in her clumsy haste she left -the sidewalk and crossed the street. This movement broke the continuous -flow of the passing people and mechanically attracted Noémi's -attention. She recognized Annette, who was trying to avoid her, and, -following her with her eyes, she saw Annette furtively glance at her -from the other side of the street and then turn her head away. It was -like a blinding light. . . . She was the woman! -</p> - -<p> -She stopped with her heart in her mouth, her nails driven into the palms -of her hands, clenching her teeth, bristling like a cat with its back -arched; there was murder in her eyes. The look of a passer-by reminded -her that she was in a world where people live by falsehood, the world -which, for once, she had left. She returned to it. But ten steps farther -on she laughed cruelly. She had caught her. . . . -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XLIII">XLIII</a></h4> - -<p> -Annette had been completely upset by the sight of Noémi. Ever since she -had surrendered herself she had been tormented by remorse. Not that she -considered herself at fault for loving the man who loved her: their love -was true, it was healthy, it was strong. It had no need of excuse or -pretence. No social convention weighed in her mind against it. In the -fever of her passion she would not even admit that she had any duty -towards Noémi. She was Philippe's real wife. She could not recognize -the other one who had not been able to share in his work and his -struggles and make him happy. But all this assurance did not alter the -fact that someone else paid the price of her own happiness, that she had -destroyed the happiness of another. She had tried to believe that Noémi -was too frivolous to suffer very much and that she would not find it -very hard to give him up. But she knew this was not so, and all she -could do was to avoid thinking of Noémi. The self-centredness of the -first days of passion had made this possible. -</p> - -<p> -But it was no longer possible now that she had met Noémi. Annette had -the unfortunate gift of being able to pass outside herself and enter -sympathetically, in spite of her own passions, into the passions of -others—especially into their sufferings, which a glance revealed to -her. . . . -</p> - -<p> -She went home almost as much obsessed as Noémi by the anxiety that was -devouring her. She could not satisfy herself with words; she could not -fortify herself with the rights of love. Noémi, too, was in love, and -Noémi was suffering. Has the love that suffers less rights than the -love that causes the suffering? It is not a question of rights. One of -the two must suffer, she or I! -</p> - -<p> -She! Annette's passion left her no choice. . . . But it was far from -pleasant. -</p> - -<p> -At least this suffering should not be aggravated! It was wrong to -prolong it as they did, to let the wound grow worse without applying a -firm hand to it, operating upon it, dressing it. To dodge the frank -confession, to throw upon Noémi all the misery of discovering her -misfortune, was cowardly and cruel. From the very first day Annette had -insisted to Philippe, "I am unwilling to conceal myself." Then how had -she allowed herself to slip from day to day into this undignified -situation? . . . It was her own faint-heartedness all the time. -</p> - -<p> -"We must speak," she said to Philippe. -</p> - -<p> -But the moment Philippe was willing to speak she prevented him. She was -afraid of his brutal frankness. He threw away like a squeezed lemon what -he no longer loved. His old bonds annoyed him. "Come," he said, "let's -make an end of it." -</p> - -<p> -And Annette replied, "No, no, not to-day." She saw the suffering he was -going to cause. Gracious heavens! How painful a thing it was to destroy -a heart! -</p> - -<p> -Philippe had plenty of other things to think about! His days were filled -by an implacable warfare against public opinion and a press that was -aroused against him. This was no time for Annette to bother him with her -own troubles. He was engaged in a perilous campaign. He had taken the -initiative in a league for birth-control. He abhorred the shameless -hypocrisy of the ruling bourgeoisie who, without the slightest interest -in improving the hygiene or alleviating the poverty of the -working-classes, were only interested in increasing their numbers, so -that there would be plenty of fodder for factory and cannon. So far as -they are concerned, they are careful not to threaten their prosperity -and complicate their life by having too many children themselves. But -they are not at all disturbed if a badly regulated birth-rate -perpetuates poverty, sickness and slavery among the common people. They -make a national and religious duty of this. Philippe was well aware of -the fury he would arouse, but no danger had ever stopped him. He rushed -straight into them, though they were greater than he expected. -</p> - -<p> -He had made himself hated by a multitude: first by his colleagues, the -pontiffs, whose vanity, doctrines and interests were wounded, then by -the rivals he supplanted and even some of his own adherents, to whom he -had not hesitated to tell the unvarnished truth. For he was not the man -to exchange easy compliments with people who praised him, and gratitude -was the least of his faults. He took what was due to him and he gave -only what he thought was deserved—which was not very much. Solange -alone excepted, the title of benefactor did not greatly impress him. No -favoritism! So he could only expect to be attacked hard and defended -weakly. He embarrassed the manœuvres of the profiteers of the ideal. -Every time some noble, philanthropic, filibustering scheme was -organized, they could be sure that he would place himself in opposition -to it. He took a scandalous pleasure in punching the noses of the -virtuous at their sly tricks. In this way he had earned in respectable -quarters, the (<i>sotto voce</i>) reputation of a bad character, a -destroyer, an anarchist. These whispers had not yet ventured as far as -the public ear—the monstrous ear of <i>Pasquino</i>, the -slanderous press. They were awaiting the right moment. <i>Eccolo</i>! -The beautiful occasion had come! . . . It was an explosion of patriotic -anger. All the papers took part in it. The echo of the public -indignation reached Parliament, where immortal words were pronounced -vindicating the right of the poor to a plentiful family. A few exalted -souls proposed a law that would deal rigorously with all propaganda that -tended directly or indirectly to reduce the population. The -exaggerations of a free-and-easy press, in which the egoism of the -pleasure-lover took precedence over all humanitarian reasons, furnished -arguments to discredit the cause. Philippe found his adherents among the -enemies of society. To every volley he replied straightforwardly himself -in one of the great newspapers. But there was danger that this tribune -would fail him, for letters of protest flooded the paper. He gave -lectures; he spoke at riotous meetings. His vehemence equalled that of -his opponents. They were on the watch for some imprudent utterance that -would enable them to overpower him. But this formidable wrestler -remained the master of his passions and did not allow himself to be -carried an inch beyond what he wanted to say. He achieved an enormous -notoriety; he was all the rage with some and an object of scorn and -hatred to others. He found it easy to breathe in the dust of the combat. -</p> - -<p> -In the midst of this tempest of what account was Noémi? -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XLIV">XLIV</a></h4> - -<p> -Noémi hastened homewards. She was remembering Philippe's first meeting -with Annette, when she had been present—her own stupidity and their -treachery. She was furious. Scarcely had she found herself between the -walls of her apartment than she gave way to her rage. It was like a -water-spout. In the twinkling of an eye everything was laid waste. -Anyone who saw her, weeping, convulsed, would have had difficulty in -recognizing her, with her pretty face distorted with anger, biting and -tearing her handkerchief, making havoc of the papers on her husband's -writing-table, avenging her suffering on the little dog that ran to her -to be petted and the paroquet she was ready to strangle. . . . But she -had taken care to lock herself in. The rôle of Fury should certainly be -played in private. It was not beautifying. It made her look hard, old -and worn out. But to see herself in the mirror, without witnesses, ugly -and wicked, did not displease her; it almost gave her comfort. This, -too, was a form of vengeance. She began to pity herself and her face, -and, distracted from her violence by this compassion, she rolled on the -carpet and sobbed loudly. . . . This could not last long, for Philippe -would be coming in; she must hurry, take double mouthfuls, weep quickly, -weep for all she was worth. . . . She continued to sob in great gusts, -but the worst part of the storm was already over. The little dog -returned, unresentfully, and licked her ear. She hugged him, moaning, -and sitting on the carpet petted one of his feet and fell silent. She -was thinking. Suddenly, with her mind made up, she rose to her feet, -fastened up the hair that had fallen over her eyes, picked up the -objects that were strewn about the room, rearranged the scattered -papers, carefully composed her face and her dress. Then she waited. -</p> - -<p> -Philippe found her calm and appreciative. At first she tried the -simplest weapons. In the course of their talk she innocently let fall a -few offensive words about her detested rival. In a sweet voice she said -two or three atrocious things about Annette—about her outward -appearance, of course. The moral question was secondary; even when the -spirit is what one loves, it is the body that makes love. Noémi was -expert in finding in a woman's beauty the things that make her seem -ugly, things which, once they have been seen, cannot be forgotten. This -time she surpassed herself. To poison the image of the rival in the eyes -of a lover is an inspiring task. . . . Philippe never flinched. -</p> - -<p> -Then she changed her tactics. She defended Annette against various bits -of gossip; she praised her virtues. (Eulogies have no consequences!) She -tried to make him talk, to make him take off his mask, to open battle -with her on the field where she was awaiting him. But Philippe remained -as indifferent to the good things she said as to the evil. -</p> - -<p> -She brought into action all her amorous allurements. She tried to arouse -Philippe's jealousy; she threatened, laughingly, to pay him back if he -ever deceived her and to pay him double. He pleaded a business -engagement and got up to go. -</p> - -<p> -Then anger seized her again. She cried out that she knew everything, -that he was Annette's lover. She threatened him, upbraided him, besought -him, talked about killing herself. He shrugged his shoulders and, -turning his back, walked to the door without a word. She ran after him, -caught him by the arms, forced him to turn around and, with her face -against his, in an altered voice, said, "Philippe! . . . You don't love -me any longer. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -He looked her in the eyes and said, "No!" Then he went out. -</p> - -<p> -If Noémi had been distracted, she now became possessed. For hours her -head whirled with insane fury. She thought of every absurd, ferocious -means of avenging herself. To kill Philippe. To kill Annette. To kill -herself. To dishonor Philippe. To defame Annette. To make Annette suffer. -To throw vitriol over Annette. . . . What joy to disfigure her! . . . -To strike at her through her honor. To strike at her through her -child. To write, send anonymous letters. . . . Feverishly she scribbled -a few lines, tore them up, began again, tore them up again. . . . She -was just as ready to set fire to the house. -</p> - -<p> -But she did not do so. Calming herself gradually, she collected her -strength and the true genius of a woman in love came into play. -</p> - -<p> -She saw plainly that she could do nothing with Philippe directly. He -would pay her for this some day! . . . But for the moment he was -inaccessible. Consequently, she must deal with Annette. . . . She went -to see Annette. -</p> - -<p> -She did not know what she was going to do. She was ready for anything. -She had taken her revolver in her hand-bag. On the way she rehearsed in -her mind scenes that she later discarded. For her instinct led her to -foresee Annette's replies and correct her plan in accordance with them. -Even at the last moment she changed everything. A flood of rage rose in -her as she climbed the stairs, panting, almost running; and through the -material of the bag she clenched the weapon in her fist. But when the -door opened and she found herself before Annette, she understood at a -glance. . . . One gesture, one word of violence, would exasperate -Annette, and she would be all the more implacable in following her -passion. -</p> - -<p> -All trace of Noémi's anger instantly disappeared. And red, as if she -were out of breath from having climbed the stairs too quickly, she flung -herself, laughing, on Annette's neck. Surprised at this outburst, -annoyed by this embrace, Annette kept her reserved manner. The other, -once in the apartment, walked unceremoniously into the bedroom and -rapidly assured herself that Philippe was not there. Then she sat down -on the arm of the chair and addressed little, tender words to Annette, -who stood stiffly beside her. As she talked she even passed one arm -about Annette's waist and played with her collar. Suddenly she -burst into tears. . . . At first Annette thought she was still -pretending. . . . But, no! This was serious; these were real -tears. . . . -</p> - -<p> -"Noémi, what is the matter with you?" -</p> - -<p> -With her face pressed against Annette's breast, she did not answer; she -continued to weep. Annette, bending over this great grief, tried to calm -her. Finally Noémi raised her head and moaned through her sobs: "Give -him back to me." -</p> - -<p> -"Who?" asked Annette, startled. -</p> - -<p> -"You know!" -</p> - -<p> -"But . . ." -</p> - -<p> -"You know, you know! I know you love him and I know he loves you. . . . -Why did you take him away from me?" -</p> - -<p> -More tears. Annette, with stricken heart, heard Noémi plaintively -recall the confidence, the affection, she had shown her, and she could -not answer, for she was reproaching herself; and these sad reproaches, -which had no violence in them, struck her heart. But when Noémi said -bitterly that Annette had abused her friendship to deceive her, she -tried to clear herself, saying that love had come in spite of her and -had overpowered her. There was nothing pleasant for Noémi in these -confessions, and she endeavored to turn them aside; she pretended to -help Annette to justify herself and seemed to believe that Philippe was -chiefly to blame. She spoke of him in the most outrageous way to assuage -her own bitterness and make him odious or at least suspect in Annette's -eyes. But the latter rose to his defence. She would not allow anyone to -accuse Philippe of being the aggressor. He had been frank. She, she -alone, had committed the error of not permitting him to confess. Then -Noémi, filled with hatred, redoubled her accusations. Annette opposed -her. The dispute grew bitter. One would have said that, of the two, -Annette was Philippe's real wife. And Noémi seemed suddenly to become -aware of this. She lost all her discretion and cried out in a new rage, -"I forbid you to speak to him! I forbid you! He is mine." -</p> - -<p> -Annette, shrugging her shoulders, said, "He belongs neither to you nor -to me. He belongs to himself." -</p> - -<p> -"He is mine," Noémi repeated passionately. "I shall keep him." She was -claiming her rights. -</p> - -<p> -"There are no rights in love," said Annette, harshly. -</p> - -<p> -"He is mine," Noémi cried again. "I shall keep him." -</p> - -<p> -"I am his," Annette replied. "You have kept nothing." -</p> - -<p> -The two women glared at each other with hatred in their eyes, Annette -steeled in egoism and hardness, Noémi burning to strike Annette. She -hated every inch of her, from her head to her feet. She wanted to insult -her ugliness, lash her with the cruellest words, the most irreparable -words. It would have been such a satisfaction. But she stopped short; -she would have lost too much! -</p> - -<p> -Stooping down quickly to pick up the bag that had fallen at her feet, -she pulled out the revolver and turned it . . . against whom? . . . She -did not know yet. . . . Against herself! . . . At first it was a feint, -but when Annette flung herself upon her to seize her arm what had been -pretence became real. The two women struggled; Noémi fell upon her -knees with Annette bending over her. It was not easy to restrain the -desperate little creature. She really meant to kill herself now. . . . -Although, if the weapon had touched Annette's bosom, with what delight -she would have fired at her. . . . But Annette struck her hand aside, -the gun went off, the bullet lodged in the wall. And Noémi never knew -which of the two she had aimed at. . . . -</p> - -<p> -She had dropped the weapon and she struggled no more. The nervous -reaction had set in. She fell now, sobbing and prostrated, at Annette's -feet: she was in hysterics. From the first Annette had suspected -intuitively that Noémi was acting a part . . . up to a certain point. -(But does one ever know just to what point?) And she had been dully -irritated by this nonsense about suicide. . . . But how could she doubt -the suffering of this poor little broken thing? She struggled to remain -hard, to turn away, but she could not; she was ashamed of her suspicions -and, with her heart full of pity, she knelt down by Noémi, lifted up -her head, tried to console her, saying maternally, "My child. . . . -Come, come! . . ." -</p> - -<p> -She took her in her strong arms and raised her up. She felt this young -body, shaken by sobs, abandoning itself, defenceless, and she thought, -"Is it possible that I am the one who causes this suffering?" -</p> - -<p> -Another voice said to her, "Would you not buy your love at the cost of -any amount of suffering?" -</p> - -<p> -"My own suffering, yes." -</p> - -<p> -"Your own and other people's. Why should the others be privileged?" -</p> - -<p> -She looked at Noémi as she held her, half-fainting. . . . So light! . . . -A bird! . . . It seemed to her that she was her daughter and, without -quite meaning to do so, she pressed her in her arms. Noémi opened her -eyes and Annette thought, "If she were in my place would she spare me?" -</p> - -<p> -But Noémi turned towards her a broken look. Annette laid her in her -<i>chaise longue</i>, and, standing beside her, placed her hand on her -head. (Noémi shivered at the hateful contact, but she did not show it.) She -asked her, as if she were addressing a weeping child, "So you love him -very much?" -</p> - -<p> -"I love nothing but him." -</p> - -<p> -"I, too, love him." -</p> - -<p> -Noémi gave a jealous start. "Oh," she said harshly, "but I am young. -You, you" (she hesitated), "you have had your life, you can get on -without him." -</p> - -<p> -Annette repeated to herself, bitterly, the words she had not uttered: -"It is because I shall soon be old that I cling to this last hour of -youth, this supreme light, and will not give it up. . . . Ah! If I had -the treasure of youth before me as you have!" -</p> - -<p> -But she added, sadly, "I should make a mess of it a second time, I -suppose." -</p> - -<p> -Noémi had seen Annette's face darken and she was afraid she had -imperilled the frail advantages she had just gained. She said hastily, -"I know quite well that he loves you, that you are -beautiful"—("Liar!" thought Annette)—"that you are superior -to me in many things that he likes. I cannot even hate you because, in -spite of everything, I love you"—("Liar! Liar!" repeated -Annette)—"The match is not equal. It isn't fair! No . . . I am -only a poor, weeping woman. I don't amount to anything. I know it. . . . -But I love him, I love him, I can't live without him. What do you think -will become of me if you take him away? Why did he love me once if it -was only to abandon me? I can't endure it. He is my whole life. -Everything else is nothing to me." -</p> - -<p> -There was nothing false in her tone now, and Annette pitied her again. -She was insensible to the rights Noémi invoked over her husband; she -did not believe in the rights of one being over another, in these -contracts of mutual proprietorship that people sign for life. But she -was distressed by these tricks of cruel nature who, when she separates -two hearts that have loved each other, never removes love from both -hearts at once—no, but rather takes pains that one of the two shall -cease to love before the other, so that the most loving is always -sacrificed. And it was hateful to her to further the schemes of the -great torturer. "Life belongs to the strongest. Yes, love does not -hesitate. To attain its end it tramples everything else under foot. Woe -to the weak! . . . But why is it that I can't say this? I should like -to, but the words stick in my throat, I cannot. It revolts me. Is it -because I do not love enough? I am old, as she says. I belong in the -ranks of the weak. . . . No! No! No! It's a trick! . . . By what right -does she come and step between happiness and me? I will not give up to -her my bit of happiness! . . . Her tears, what are her tears to -me? . . . I will trample on her!" -</p> - -<p> -But as she looked angrily at Noémi lying there, Noémi, who was -watching her through her tears, took the hand, the arm that hung down by -the back of the chair, pressed it against her cheek and begged, "Let me -keep him!" -</p> - -<p> -Annette tried to free herself. Noémi held her fast. Rising in her -chair, she slid her two hands up Annette's arm, forcing her to bend over -and look at her. "Let me keep him!" -</p> - -<p> -Annette snatched herself away from the fingers that gripped her. She -rebelled. "No! No! I will not. He needs me." -</p> - -<p> -"He needs nothing but himself," said Noémi, bitterly. "He loves nothing -but himself. He finds his pleasure in you as he once found it in me. He -will leave you as he left me. He is not attached to anything." -</p> - -<p> -She judged him hardly and profoundly. Annette was struck by her -intelligence. With what acuteness, born of bitterness and suffering, had -he been read to the depths by this little creature who seemed so -frivolous and heedless! Some of her terrible observations corresponded -only too well with the apprehensions that her own experiences had -awakened in Annette. "And yet you love him?" she said. -</p> - -<p> -"I love him. He does not need me. It is I who need him. . . . Ah! Do you -suppose I don't suffer in needing a man who has no need of me, a man who -despises me, whom I despise? . . . I do despise him! I despise him! But -I can't live without him. . . . Why did I ever know him? It was I who -wanted him. I wanted him, I caught him. . . . And I am the one who is -caught. If only, if only I had never known him! Ah, but I can't wish -that! . . . I haven't the strength. I am too much in love. He holds me -completely. I hate him. I hate love. Why, why does one love?" -</p> - -<p> -She stopped, exhausted, with her hunted eyes wandering, seeking to the -right, to the left, a way of escape. They bowed their heads, these two -women, enslaved under the yoke of the savage force. -</p> - -<p> -Noémi took up her refrain in a dull, heavy tone, "Let me keep him." -</p> - -<p> -Annette felt a will as tenacious and adhesive as a devilfish clinging to -her limbs with its arms covered with suckers. She snatched herself away -from it again and cried, "I will not." -</p> - -<p> -There was a flash of anger in Noémi's eyes and her fingers clenched. -Then in a soft, plaintive voice, she said, "Love him! Let him love you! -But don't take him away from me. Let us both keep him, you and I." -</p> - -<p> -Annette made a gesture of repulsion. -</p> - -<p> -Noémi's fury flashed up again. "Do you think it doesn't disgust me? You -disgust me. I detest you. But I don't want to lose him." -</p> - -<p> -Annette moved away from Noémi and said, "I do not detest you. You are -suffering and I am suffering. But it is base to divide in love. I am -willing to be the victim. I am willing to be the executioner. I am not -willing to be base. To save what I love I am not willing to surrender -half of it. I give everything. I want everything. Or I want nothing." -</p> - -<p> -Noémi, clenching her teeth, cried from the depths of her heart. -"Nothing!" (For even while she was offering to yield a share, she -counted on regaining everything.) -</p> - -<p> -Then, with a bound, she rose from her chair, ran to Annette as she stood -there, and, falling on her knees, clasped her legs. "Forgive me! I don't -know, I don't know what I am asking. I don't know what I want. But I am -unhappy. I cannot endure it. . . . What am I to do? Tell me! Help me!" -</p> - -<p> -"Help you! I!" said Annette. -</p> - -<p> -"You. To whom can I go for help? I am alone. Alone with that man who is -not interested in you, even when he loves you, in whom you cannot put -any trust. . . . And, before he came, a mother who was interested in -nothing but herself, in her pleasures. . . . No one to advise me. ... I -haven't a single friend. . . . When I saw you I thought you would be -one. And you have been my worst enemy. . . . Why have you done me this -injury?" -</p> - -<p> -Annette was overwhelmed. "My poor child, it wasn't my fault. I didn't -wish it. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -Noémi seized upon this compassionate word, "Your child, you said. . . . -Yes, be a mother, an older sister to me! Don't hurt me! Advise me. Tell -me what I should do. I don't want to lose him. . . . Tell me, tell -me. . . . I will do anything you say. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -She was speaking only half falsely. She was so accustomed to shamming -what she felt that she felt what she shammed. And her love, her grief, -her need of Annette, her hope of touching her, were certainly real. Even -this confidence she showed in her—the last card she had to play. She -played it with a passion of despair. And even as she unbosomed herself, -she did not lose sight of the disquietude that Annette's face could not -conceal. Annette was weakening. Noémi's self-abandonment disarmed her. -She no longer had the strength to reply. She was not deceived, however. -The sugary tone of some of her adversary's inflections threw light on -the latter's duplicity. She let her talk. She read her depths. She was -thinking, "What shall I do? Sacrifice myself? What a sell! I will not. I -don't like this woman. She lies, she hates me. But she is suffering." -And she stroked the head of the kneeling enemy, who continued to groan -and watch her, following her vacillating will as if it were her prey, -with a shiver of fear, of acute breathless half-sanguinary joy, and who, -at the right moments, pressing to her lips those hands that she would -gladly have bitten, repeated, tirelessly, "Let me keep him!" -</p> - -<p> -Annette, with lowered brows, wanted to drive her away. She saw in those -eyes trickery and grief, falsehood and love, a desperate hope. She -smiled with weariness, pity and disgust for herself, for them -both—for everything; and, turning aside her head, she said in a -moment of weakness, "Keep him!" -</p> - -<p> -No sooner had she said it than she wished to take it back. But -Noémi bounded to her feet and embraced Annette with frantic -protestations. . . . (She had never hated her so much! At last she -had her! . . . Had her?) Annette was already saying, "No, no! . . ." -</p> - -<p> -Noémi pretended not to hear. She called her darling, her best friend. -She vowed eternal gratitude, eternal love. She laughed and cried. But -she did not waste her time in vain effusions. She wanted to know what -Annette would do to get rid of Philippe. -</p> - -<p> -Annette rebelled. "I said nothing." -</p> - -<p> -"You did say it. You did say it. You promised me. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -"A word that escaped me. . . . You dragged it from me by surprise." -</p> - -<p> -"No, you can't take it back. You said 'Keep him.' You said it, Annette. -Tell me that you said it! You can't deny it. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -"Leave me, leave me," said Annette, exhausted. "Don't torment me. I -can't. I can't." -</p> - -<p> -She sat down, crushed, while Noémi, standing beside her, continued to -harass her. Their rôles had changed. Annette refused to give him up; -her love had taken root in her. Noémi did not care about this. Annette -could keep her love if she did not keep Philippe. She wanted Annette to -break with him at once, without waiting. And she could suggest ways of -breaking with him; her head was full of them. She urged her, cajoled -her, begged her, tried to force her, embraced her, deafened her with her -flow of words; she appealed to her generous heart, besought, adjured, -demanded, dictated the replies. . . . -</p> - -<p> -Annette, rigid and frozen, would not say another word. She did not even -try to stop this torrent. Her lips were tightly pressed together, her -eyes dull. . . . At last Noémi became silent in the face of this -immobility. She took her hands—they were cold and damp. "Answer, -answer!" she said. -</p> - -<p> -Without looking at her, Annette murmured, "Leave me." (Her voice was so -low that Noémi read it on her lips rather than heard it.) -</p> - -<p> -"You want me to go away?" she replied. -</p> - -<p> -Annette nodded. -</p> - -<p> -"I am going, but you have promised?" -</p> - -<p> -Annette repeated wearily, "Leave me, leave me. . . . I need to be -alone. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -Noémi hastily rearranged her hair before the mirror. Then, turning -towards the door, she said, "Good-bye, you have promised. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -Annette made a final gesture of protest, "No, I have promised nothing." -</p> - -<p> -Noémi felt herself again flooded with anger. After all this effort! But -her instinct told her that she must not move too quickly or stretch the -cord too tight. . . . All the same, the blow had its effect. She left. -</p> - -<p> -She had seen the weakness of the enemy. She would trample on her. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XLV">XLV</a></h4> - -<p> -Annette remained for some time motionless in the spot where Noémi had -left her. She was exhausted after this long scene. She would have -resisted better if the attack had not surprised her at a moment when she -was already shaken by the double wear and tear of passion and incessant -work, the uninterrupted fever aroused in her stormy soul by her -participation in Philippe's struggles, the repressed remorse, the -anguish that was concealed beneath her exhaustion of mind and body. This -weakness gave Noémi her strength. She found the field prepared and an -ally in her adversary. -</p> - -<p> -Noémi herself played little part in Annette's anxieties. She cared -little for her as a woman. As a rival she did not care about her at all. -She considered her false, perfidious, heartless, and with jealous -injustice she now denied what she had at first enjoyed, her charm. -Everything about her seemed factitious except her grief. Besides, it -mattered very little whether it was Noémi or someone else. . . . "She -is a living creature who suffers, and I, I cause this suffering. . . ." -And a strange pity preyed upon Annette's heart. -</p> - -<p> -This tendency had developed, during the last few years, from the sight -of so much misery, from her connection with those two deaths, Odette's -and Ruth's. She had been mysteriously shaken by them. A weakness. She -called it unhealthy and perhaps it was so. One could not live if one had -to pause over the sufferings of the world. All happiness is nourished on -the unhappiness of someone else. Life devours life, as larvæ devour the -living prey in which they are laid. And everyone drinks the blood of -all. . . . Annette had once drunk it without thinking of it, and this -blood brought warmth and joy to her body. While she was young she had -never thought of the victims. From the moment when she had said to -herself, as she thought of them, "I must be hard," she had begun to -weaken. She felt this; she could only be hard intermittently now. She -was growing old. Ten years earlier she would not have had a moment's -hesitation because of the harm she was doing Noémi. "My happiness is my -right. Woe to anyone who touches it! . . ." She would have had no need -to seek for pretexts. Now, in order to snatch from life her share of -happiness, she had to find other reasons than her happiness. She was no -longer sufficient unto herself. She had found the strength to brush -aside, without scruple, the other less fortunate competitors in the hunt -for bread. This bread was her son's; she was upheld by the animal -instinct that makes a creature bristle to defend its young and feed them -on the flesh of its fellow-animals. But the other animal instinct, the -love of self—taking and keeping for oneself—was dying down and -only asserted itself now by fits and starts. Maternity, by usurping the -place of this other instinct, had partially destroyed it. -</p> - -<p> -In the present crisis her son was no help to her. Far from it! He was -one anxiety and remorse the more. Annette could not lie to herself, her -passion took no account of her son. She felt guilty towards him, and she -had taken pains to hide everything from him. She knew the child. In the -past she had observed the jealousy that led him to drive his claws into -those whom she loved. She did not blame him for this. She was glad that -he wanted to be the only one to love her. . . . But to-day she was -defending her treasure—against whom? Against her treasure! Passion -against passion. She did not wish to sacrifice either of the two. And as -both of them were jealous, obstinate, domineering, she had to hide from -each the secret of the other. Had she succeeded? Marc detested the -"other fellow." He knew nothing—of that she was sure—but -although he did not know, had not his instinct told him? She was ashamed -to conceal herself and she was even more ashamed that he might -suspect. . . . No, he suspected nothing; it was for other reasons that -he hated Philippe. . . . -</p> - -<p> -As for Philippe himself, he did not do Marc the honor of thinking about -him at all. In marrying Annette he would have been quite willing to take -two or three brats into the bargain. It made no difference to him either -in his feelings or financially; there was no need to be grateful to him -for it. He did not dislike Marc; he thought him fairly bright, rather -lazy, not very keen; he might have subjected him to a sharp discipline, -but he felt no need to concern himself with the child, and he made this -plain. He had a way of talking of him, a rough humor that wounded -Annette to the quick. Accustomed to the coarse things of life, he had no -idea of the consideration that a proud, sensitive nature demands, of the -things that offend its sense of decency. In the bluntest, rudest terms -he would give the boy, in his mother's presence, harsh warnings and -medical advice that made both the child and the mother blush. The mother -more than the child. Philippe's theory was that nothing must be -concealed from the boy. This was also Annette's theory. And Marc's as -well. But there are ways of putting things! Annette suffered in her very -flesh. Marc, who was humiliated, stored up the bitterest resentment. -Between him and Philippe there never could be anything but -misunderstanding. Their two temperaments were too different. Annette -could foresee the clashes, the endless discords. A terrible thought for -her, the passionate lover and mother! -</p> - -<p> -There was no one to whom she could turn for help in making up her mind. -She had to decide alone, egoistically. Well, didn't she have the right -to think of herself too? A right is nothing if one does not maintain it. -Was she maintaining hers? . . . Yes, at moments, like a lioness, when -she saw youth, happiness, life about to be swallowed up. . . . -Happiness? . . . There was no question of happiness in a union with a -man like Philippe! Something less or something more, incomparably more -for a woman like Annette: a full, bold, intelligent life, not a life of -repose slumbering in its security, but great winds, storms, action, -struggles—with the world—with him—a life of trouble -and fatigue—but together—life—a life worthy of being -lived, with death at the end, when one was worn out and happy to leave -the hard, fertile days behind, happy to have had them. . . . That was -glorious!! But one must have the strength. . . . She had it, enough to -carry the burden, once it was well adjusted, with her head up, to the -end. But in order to adjust it she had to be helped and even forced a -little. Philippe must place the burden on her head, impose it on her. He -must say, "Carry it! For me! You are necessary to me. . . ." With these -words she could surmount all her remorse. . . . Was she necessary to -Philippe? He had said so during the first days when he had wanted to win -her. He no longer said it, and Annette would have liked to hear it again -and again, to be convinced. She saw him full of himself, used to working -alone, fighting alone, extricating himself alone, putting all his pride -into it; he would have felt humiliated if he had had to seek help. So -she said to herself, "What am I good for?" It is the bounty of love not -only to give us faith in someone else but to give us back faith in -ourself. May it be charitable to us! -</p> - -<p> -This was a feeling that Philippe seldom entertained. Like most of his -kind, this great doctor of the body paid little attention to maladies of -the soul. He never gave a thought to the doubts that preyed upon this -woman whose body lay by his side. He should not have left her the time -to question herself. . . . Make an end of it, marry her! . . . Annette -would whisper to him softly, "Let's go away together, so that I can -never take myself back!" -</p> - -<p> -But Philippe was no longer in a hurry. He was passionate, yes, but he -had many other passions that were of far more importance to him: his -ideas, his struggles, the controversy that was absorbing him at the -moment when Annette would have liked him to think of nothing but -herself. He had no intention of stirring up a conjugal scandal and -hampering himself with a noisy divorce-case before he had emerged from -the fire of the present battle. He had made up his mind to keep his -promises. But later! Annette must have patience. It was easy enough for -him to be patient. He enjoyed her. He was quite willing to leave things -as they were. He flattered himself that he could impose the same -forbearance upon Noémi. He flattered himself too much! He did not wish -to see how intolerable this waiting was to the two women. . . . -</p> - -<p> -"Naturally," thought Annette, "a man—a man worthy for us to -love—will never love us as much as his ideas, his science, his art, -his politics. A naïve egoism that thinks it is disinterested because it -incarnates itself in ideas. The egoism of the brain, more murderous than -that of the heart. How many hearts have been broken by it!" -</p> - -<p> -She was not surprised at this, for she knew life; but it hurt her. If it -had only been a question of suffering she would have accepted it, -however, perhaps even with that secret enjoyment of self-sacrifice which -is familiar to women and which they willingly consider the price of -love. But not to the point of sacrificing her self-respect and her son's -honor in a humiliating situation. It hurt her that Philippe did not feel -this. Of course he was not sensitive. She knew what he thought of women -and love. He could not help thinking as he did; he had been shaped by -his education and his rough experiences, and it was for this that she -loved him. But she had flattered herself with the hope that she would -change him. Instead, she perceived that day by day she was losing her -power over him. And worst of all, over herself. Annette felt herself -invaded by the demon of sensuality; day by day she became less the -mistress of her will, more enslaved. -</p> - -<p> -The duel of passion only preserves its nobility as long as there is -equality between the combatants. When one is conquered the other abuses -his victory and the vanquished becomes debased. Annette was at that -poignant moment which precedes and determines defeat. She knew it: her -strength would not sustain her any longer. Philippe knew this also, and -his attitude showed it. It made no difference that he cared just as -much—perhaps more, for Annette; he showed less consideration for her -and he made brutal use of what belonged to him. He treated her like a -conquered province. With all his days absorbed in his regular and -passionate life of toil and his nights by Noémi (for he wished to keep -up appearances), he saw Annette only during brief and burning -encounters. No intimacy of the heart. He maintained, cynically, that she -had the best of it all. -</p> - -<p> -She wanted to tear herself away from this degradation in which her -senses were accomplices, but every day they became more imperious. Once, -when she wished to flee from their tyranny, they refused to obey with a -violence that dismayed her. A woman of such fervent energy who, after -having severely disciplined and repressed her passions for ten years, -opens the door of their cage at the most fiery moment of the stormy -summer, runs the risk of being destroyed. -</p> - -<p> -Annette could only retrieve herself by forcing Philippe to respect the -wife she wished to be—the companion "<i>rei humanœ atque -divinœ</i>"—the equal. She asked Philippe, she besought him in -anguish, to give her up till the time came when they could love and -marry openly. Philippe refused: he was as unwilling to be hampered in -his passions as in his public life. He was unwilling either to do -without Annette or to marry her at a time that did not suit him. He -pretended to consider Annette's attempt to leave him as a rather -degrading manœuvre to attach him to her. And this although he knew very -well what a whole-hearted gift she had made of herself! She was insulted -by the outrageous suspicion—and she gave herself again with a -despairing passion and disgust. -</p> - -<p> -As for himself, he would see nothing of all this. He came back, -demanding his own selfish rights as a lover, never realizing that, -although she consented to them, every one of these carnal victories left -a wound in his partner. -</p> - -<p> -Annette was degraded in her own eyes. She ceased to give herself; she -prostituted herself to love. Unless she flung herself off the slope down -which her mad body was sliding, she was lost. . . . -</p> - -<p> -One afternoon she fled. She went to Sylvie's and asked her to let her -child stay with her for a few days, pleading as an excuse that she had -to go away. Sylvie asked for no explanation; one glance was enough. This -woman, whose curiosity was so often indiscreet, and who was unable in so -many ways to understand her sister's ideas, had an instinct for love and -its tragic tricks. In the days of the old intimacy with Annette, she had -never confided to her the secrets of her own love affairs, and she did -not expect Annette to open herself to her. She knew that every woman has -a right to her hours of silence, her great hours, and that at such times -no one can help her. One must save oneself alone or perish alone. She -offered her sister the shelter of a little house she owned in the -suburbs, near Jouy-en-Josas. Annette was touched, and she kissed her and -accepted. In this little rustic house, on the edge of the woods, she -shut herself up for a fortnight. She had not even told Marc where she -was going. Her retreat was known only to Sylvie. -</p> - -<p> -Scarcely had she left Paris and its enchanted circle than she perceived -the excesses of the past few weeks and passed judgment on them. She was -terrified by them. She, this mad creature, this miserable slave drunk -with her own servitude! Passion, the destroyer of the soul! . . . Its -clasp loosened. She breathed again, this evening, she saw and felt once -more the fields, the woods, the calm of the earth. For two months an -opaque red veil had concealed the living world from her. Even those -closest to her, her son, had come to seem far away. . . . But when she -reached the house in the fields, the veil was torn away in the rays of -the setting sun. She heard the bells, the birds, the voices of the -peasants; she wept with relief. . . . In the middle of the night, -however—she had fallen asleep exhausted—she awoke suddenly with -a pang of anguish. She felt about her throat the coils of the serpent. -</p> - -<p> -She spent her days in a succession of humiliating tortures, bland -impulses, moments of sudden, keen, absolute clairvoyance that pierced -the great deception. She had a perpetual feeling of insecurity. Even -though she was prepared and armed, a mere nothing would have caused her -to give way. She prolonged her absence. -</p> - -<p> -She was not without danger of imperilling her situation. In this sudden -eclipse, she was losing her lessons. The little clientele that she had -gathered with so much trouble was passing into other hands. Sylvie -forwarded letters and information to her sister, but she added nothing -but good news about the child's health. She avoided giving her any -advice. Annette alone was to judge. -</p> - -<p> -Annette knew full well that she ought to return, but she still -lingered. . . . It was in vain that she stayed on; she could not -prevent her thoughts from returning to Philippe. What was he -doing? Wasn't he hunting for her? . . . From him nothing had -come. She dreaded any news, and she sought for it. She dismissed -him from her mind, she thought she had freed herself. But he had -not given her up and suddenly he rose before her. -</p> - -<p> -One evening she was wandering, idle, full of haunting thoughts, under -the arbor that skirted the low wall of the garden, when, between the -branches, she saw an automobile coming towards her in the distance down -the white road. And she thought, "It's he!" . . . She stepped back out -of sight. The car drove past along the wall to the end of the little -yard. Annette, with her heart tightening, listened to its roaring, heard -it slow down. Thirty paces farther on the road forked and the car -stopped. Annette, behind the screen of leaves, ventured to glance, out -and saw the back of the man who was hesitating, turning round, exploring -the horizon. She recognized him. Terror seized her. She ran and flung -herself behind a hedge of box and sank down upon the ground, her nails -scratching the earth; she lowered her head and the blood flooded her -cheeks as she thought, "He is going to take me again!" She wanted to say -"No" and her blood cried "Yes!" She felt the dry turf crumbling under -her fingers, and, with her face buried in the boxwood, she tried to stop -the roaring of the blood in her ears so that she could listen to the -steps on the other side of the wall. She heard the car starting off -again. She ran to the corner of the garden on the road and cried, -"Philippe!" -</p> - -<p> -The car disappeared at the turn. -</p> - -<p> -The next day Annette went back to Paris. Did she know what she wanted or -what she was going to do? Sylvie looked at her pityingly and said to -herself, "It's no better." But she did not question her. -</p> - -<p> -Annette, full of gratitude, remained seated without speaking, her body -broken with fatigue, in a corner of her sister's room, seeking peace in -this warm presence. Sylvie came and went, leaving her to recover herself -in the silence. At last Annette got up to go home. As she was about to -leave, Sylvie, placing her hands on either side of her forehead, looked -at her a long time, shook her head and said, "If you can't do otherwise, -submit; don't struggle any longer. It will pass. Everything passes, the -good, the bad and we ourselves. . . . How little it all matters!" -</p> - -<p> -But to Annette it mattered a great deal. The question was not merely -between Philippe and herself. It was between her and herself. To return -to Philippe and confess herself conquered by him would have given her a -bitter pleasure. But what terrified her was a deeper, more intimately -personal defeat that would have no witness but herself. She carried her -mortal adversary within her. Never once, for many years, had she failed -to realize this, though from pride and prudence perhaps she had pleased -herself by not thinking of it. This gulf of desire and sensual delight -that a former life (her father's?) had dug within her. . . . Everything -that gave her strength and pride of life, her will, her healthy soul, -the free, pure breath that bathed her lungs, everything was being sucked -down into it. <i>Mors antmœ</i>. . . . And Annette, whose reason did not -seem to believe in the soul, did not wish her soul to die. -</p> - -<p> -Carried back to Paris, where Philippe was, like a captive on some -Assyrian bas-relief, with a rope about her neck, she did not look for -Philippe. She avoided him. -</p> - -<p> -Philippe, as much possessed by Annette as Annette was by him, had come -and knocked at her door in her absence. He was indignant over this -sudden departure. He would not admit that she could escape him. He tried -to find her address. He had Sylvie's and he went to see her. The first -glance was a declaration of war. Sylvie had understood. Armed with a -bitter defiance, she sized Philippe up with her own eyes and not with -those of Annette—a man who would be dangerous as an enemy and more -dangerous as a lover, the kind of man who destroys what he loves. She -knew that sort and she would never have anything to do with them. To -Philippe's peremptory questions regarding Annette's whereabouts, she -replied coldly that she knew nothing about them, taking pains that he -should see that she knew everything. Philippe made an effort to conceal -his annoyance. He tried to wheedle her. Sylvie remained stolid. He went -away in a rage. -</p> - -<p> -He wasted no time in beating the bushes for her, and it never entered -his head to cover himself with dust travelling in a car to -Jouy-en-Josas. He did not even look for Annette. He had no intention of -sacrificing his days in a vain pursuit. He was sure she would come back. -But that she should fail him, that she should allow herself to upset him -at such a moment as this, was more than he could forgive; and his -resentment, no less than a furious need of diversion, flung him back -upon his wife. It was a provisional reconciliation and humiliating -enough to this woman who was only a substitute. For it was only for want -of something better; he was waiting for the other one. -</p> - -<p> -But Noémi was not going to be proud when her advantage opposed it. She -did not waste her time. The ordeal had revealed to her former -mistakes. She had realized that to hold a man it is not enough to make -him love you. You must flatter his pride and his whims. Philippe was -astonished at the interest she showed in his present campaign, -astonished that she had even taken the trouble to find out about it. He -suspected her motives, but whether Noémi's interest was real or not, it -was very agreeable to him. It pleased him to discover Noémi's -intelligence. She no longer concealed it. It was through this that -Annette had ousted her. She made use of these weapons and improved on -them. Unlike Annette, she did not trouble to go to the bottom of the -dispute. She left this to her husband and master. She limited her rôle -to suggesting the most skilful tactics for assuring him the victory. -Philippe admired her ingenuity. -</p> - -<p> -At this moment the controversy was at the most violent stage. Noémi, -overcoming the repugnance and boredom that she felt at these quarrels -between men, perceived that she must fling herself resolutely into the -arena. She set to work upholding, with the wittiest effrontery, in -drawing-rooms, the daring arguments her husband had launched. Her grace, -her humor, her laughing enthusiasm, her impishness, her passionate -earnestness, caused some slight scandal and a great deal of amusement. -She won over to her side a number of young women who were delighted to -show how free they were from social prejudices. The skilful Noémi took -pains not to break with appearances. Even while she gave them the most -disrespectful raps, she contrived to procure indulgence for herself in -the camp of morality and respectable people. She gravely maintained that -the right of the poor to have no children had its counterpart in the -duty of the rich to supply the State and Society with them. It required -self-possession to say this and not lose her assurance, for during seven -years of married life she had never found the time to fulfil this duty -herself. But she was heroic. She discovered this now. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XLVI">XLVI</a></h4> - -<p> -Philippe was not slow in discovering that Annette had come back. He -tried to find her in her apartment at the hours when he knew she was -alone. But Annette distrusted herself. He found the door shut. In spite -of his resentment and his distractions, his passion had not weakened. -Annette's resistance exasperated him. He was not the man to let himself -be dismissed. -</p> - -<p> -Annette caught sight of him a few steps away in the street. She turned -pale, but she did not try to escape from him. They approached each -other. He said, with decision, "You are going home. I am going with -you." -</p> - -<p> -"No," she replied. -</p> - -<p> -Together they entered a small square that backed upon a church. A dusty -tree barely concealed them from the stream of passers-by in the street. -They had to restrain themselves. -</p> - -<p> -"You are afraid of me." -</p> - -<p> -"No," she said, "of myself." -</p> - -<p> -Philippe was burning with passion and resentment. But when his hard -glance encountered Annette's, which did not avoid him, he perceived the -suffering that she was firmly controlling. His anger melted, and in a -softened voice he asked, "Why did you run away?" -</p> - -<p> -"Because you are killing me." -</p> - -<p> -"Don't you know what it is to love?" -</p> - -<p> -"I do know, and that is why I ran away. I am afraid of hating you." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, hate me, if you like. Hating is a way of loving." -</p> - -<p> -"Not for me," she said. "I can't endure it." -</p> - -<p> -"You are not so weak that you can't endure both the good and evil of a -complete love." -</p> - -<p> -"I am not so weak, Philippe. I want a complete love. Body and soul. I -don't want merely half." -</p> - -<p> -"The soul is all nonsense," he said. -</p> - -<p> -"Then to what purpose have you devoted all your energy? For what have -you sacrificed yourself, ever since you were born, if not to your Idea?" -</p> - -<p> -He shrugged his shoulders. "Delusion!" he said. -</p> - -<p> -"You live by it. I have mine too. Don't kill it." -</p> - -<p> -"What do you want?" -</p> - -<p> -"I want us to avoid seeing each other till the day when we decide -whether we are to unite our lives or not." -</p> - -<p> -"Why?" -</p> - -<p> -"Because I don't want, I don't want to hide any longer. I don't want any -more sharing. I don't want it, I don't want it." -</p> - -<p> -But she did not utter her deepest reason. ("If I gave in once more, I -should soon cease to have the will to desire anything else. I should no -longer belong to myself. I should be a toy that is broken after it has -been spoiled.") -</p> - -<p> -But he was incapable of understanding this instinctive revolt against -one's enslavement to one's deadly desires. He could see in it nothing -but defiance and a feminine trick to get the best of him. If he did not -put this into words, he did not by any means conceal his feeling. When -Annette perceived this, she made an impetuous movement to leave him. -Philippe, trembling with impatience and the effort he was making not to -betray it to the eyes of passers-by, seized Annette's arm, pressed it -and said in a furious voice which he tried to muffle, "As for me, I will -not, will not give you up. I will see you. Be still! Don't answer. . . . -We can't talk here. . . . I shall come and see you this evening." -</p> - -<p> -"No, no!" she said. -</p> - -<p> -"I shall come," he said. "I cannot live without you. Nor can you live -without me." -</p> - -<p> -"I can," she said, rebelliously. -</p> - -<p> -"You lie!" -</p> - -<p> -They struggled, without moving, in low, violent voices, lashing each -other's souls. They measured each other with their eyes. Philippe's gave -way. "Annette!" he besought her. -</p> - -<p> -But her cheeks still burned with the brutal lie he had given her, the -shame of thinking that she really had lied. She stiffened, freed herself -from the hand that held her, and went away. -</p> - -<p> -In the evening Philippe came. She had spent the whole day in terror of -this moment, in terror lest she might not have the strength to keep her -door shut. For she did not want to face again this pitiless passion. She -was convinced of the impossibility of living with this torch fastened to -her breast. She must tear it away while the strength still remained to -her. Did enough still remain? She loved him, she loved the flame that -was consuming her. The next day she would love the shame and the outrage -to which she had submitted. She blushed to admit it to herself, but even -in her revolt against him that morning there had been an element of -sensual delight. -</p> - -<p> -She recognized his steps as they came up the stairs. She heard him ring -and did not move from her chair. He rang again and knocked. Annette, -with her arms hanging and her shoulders flung back, kept repeating to -herself, "No! No!" -</p> - -<p> -Even had she wished to rise and open the door her breath would have -failed her. -</p> - -<p> -She heard nothing more. Had he gone away? She was on her feet before she -had even thought of it. She slipped with tottering, noiseless steps to -the door. A board in the floor creaked. Annette stopped. Some seconds -passed. . . . Nothing stirred. But she was aware of Philippe's presence -watching behind the door. And Philippe knew that Annette was listening -on the other side. There was a heavy silence. They were spying on each -other. . . . Philippe's voice, close to the door, said, "Annette, you -are there. Open!" -</p> - -<p> -Annette, leaning against the wall, felt her heart give way. She did not -answer. -</p> - -<p> -"I know you are there. Don't try to hide! Annette, open! I must speak to -you." -</p> - -<p> -He lowered his voice so as not to be heard on the stairway, but a flood -of mingled passions was rising in him. He was on the point of shaking -the door. -</p> - -<p> -"I must see you. . . . Whether you wish it or not, I mean to come -in. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -Silence. -</p> - -<p> -"Annette, I hurt you this morning. Forgive me! . . . I want you. What do -you want me to do? Tell me. I will do it. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -Silence. Silence. -</p> - -<p> -Philippe clenched his fists. He could have strangled her. With his mouth -against the door, he growled, "You are mine. You haven't the right to -take yourself back. -</p> - -<p> -"Think hard!" he said. "If you don't open, it is finished for ever. -</p> - -<p> -"Annette, my Annette!" he said. -</p> - -<p> -"Coward!" he said furiously. "You are afraid to see me. You are only -strong behind a closed door." -</p> - -<p> -"Why do you torture me?" said a voice behind the door. -</p> - -<p> -Philippe was silent. -</p> - -<p> -"My friend," the tired voice went on, "you are killing me." -</p> - -<p> -Philippe was touched, but his wounded pride was unwilling to show it. -"What do you want?" he said. -</p> - -<p> -"Mercy!" she answered. -</p> - -<p> -The tone of her voice touched him, but he did not understand. "What do -you need?" -</p> - -<p> -"Leave me!" she said. -</p> - -<p> -His anger sprang up again. "You are driving me away?" -</p> - -<p> -"I am begging you for peace. Peace! . . . Leave me alone for a few -weeks." -</p> - -<p> -"You don't love me any longer?" -</p> - -<p> -"I am defending my love." -</p> - -<p> -"Against whom? Against what?" -</p> - -<p> -"Against you." -</p> - -<p> -"Madness! . . . You will open to me." -</p> - -<p> -"No!" -</p> - -<p> -"I demand it. I want you." -</p> - -<p> -"I am not your prey." -</p> - -<p> -Quivering, she held herself straight and proud. Her eyes defied him -through the door. Though he could not see them, these eyes pierced him. -"Good-bye!" he cried to her. -</p> - -<p> -She heard him go away, and her blood froze. He would never forgive. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XLVII">XLVII</a></h4> - -<p> -He did not forgive. Philippe did not return. -</p> - -<p> -Annette kept repeating to herself, "It had to be, it had to be. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -But she could not accept it. She longed to see Philippe once more, to make -him understand, gently—why had he been so furious?—that she was -not leaving him, that she was jealously defending her love, their love, -their common pride which he was destroying with unconscious brutality. -She wanted them both to have a chance to collect themselves, to recover -themselves amid the torrent of passion that was rolling them along with -its mud and foam, so that they might consider things and make up their -minds with perfect liberty. If he finally chose her, let it be in a -fashion compatible with his wife's and his own self-respect. -</p> - -<p> -But Philippe would never forgive a woman he loved who had raised a -barrier against his will. If he had belonged to another social class he -would have violated her. Confined as he was in the cage of his own, -obliged to handle with tact this world he wished to master, his wounded -passion turned into an exasperated denial of itself. Losing the woman, -he destroyed the feeling he had for her. This, as he knew, would strike -her to the heart. For his instinct told him that, in spite of -everything, Annette loved him. -</p> - -<p> -After three months of burning solitude, of a bitter and tormented -self-communion, of hope, renunciation, pride, servility of soul, inner -reproaches, after three months of hopeless, sterile waiting, Annette -learned one day from the delighted Solange of the happiness that had -fulfilled the longings of the Villard household. Noémi was about to -have a child. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XLVIII">XLVIII</a></h4> - -<p> -Annette would have liked to take refuge with her child and hide her -unhappy head under the wing of the love which, they say, never fails -one—that of the son for the mother. Alas, it fails like all the -others. Annette could not look to Marc for a sign of tenderness or even -interest. Never had the young boy seemed colder, more indifferent, more -unfeeling. He saw nothing of the torments that ravaged his mother. To be -sure, she did her best to conceal them from him. But she concealed them -so badly! He might have seen them in her eyes, hollow as they were with -sleeplessness, in her pale face, in her thin hands, in her whole body, -which was wasted by cruel passion. He saw nothing. He did not even look. -He was concerned with nothing but himself, and what took place in him he -kept to himself. He saw her only at meal-times, when he never said a -word; the efforts Annette made to talk only made him more obstinate in -his silence. She could scarcely induce him to say good-morning and -good-night at the beginning and the end of the day, for he had made up -his mind that all such things were mere affectation, and he only agreed -to them—and that not every day—for the sake of peace. He would -hastily offer his mother's lips a bored forehead, and when he did not go -out to school or on some affair of his own—it was not easy to get him -to tell about the latter—he shut himself up in his workroom, a -store-room, about the size of a large wardrobe, wedged in between the -dining-room and his bedroom; and it was a mistake to disturb him there. -At the table or in the sitting-room, he seemed like a stranger. Annette -said to herself bitterly, "If I died he would not even weep." -</p> - -<p> -And she thought of the dream she had once conceived of the dear little -companion, blood of her blood, pressed close against her, divining, -sharing, without words, all the secrets of her heart. How lacking in -affection he was! Why was he so hard? One would have said at moments -that he was angry with her. Why? Because she loved him too much? -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, that is my weakness, loving too much. People do not need it. It -bores them. . . . My son does not love me! He is only too anxious to -leave me. My son is so little my son! He feels nothing of what I feel. -He feels nothing!" -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -During these very days Marc's young heart was aflame with love and -poetry. He had fallen madly in love with Noémi. It was one of those -childish loves that are so absurd and all-consuming. He hardly knew what -he wanted of this woman: was it to see her, feel her, touch her, taste -her? Of course, he never dreamed of what possession meant: he was the -possessed one. Marc almost fainted when he touched the little hand that -Noémi held out to him, touched it with his lips and the tip of his -nose, the greedy puppy's nose that inhaled, in the frail flower of the -wrist, the intoxicating mystery of the feminine body. For him she was a -living fruit and flower. He was dying with desire to implant his teeth -in it—very gently—dying of terror lest he might yield. -Once—oh, shame!—he did yield. . . . What was going to -happen? Red and trembling, he expected the worst: public humiliation, -indignant words, an ignominious dismissal. But she burst out laughing, -called him "puppy," boxed his ear, rubbed his nose once, twice, three -times, over the spot he had bitten, saying, "Beg my pardon, little -wretch!" -</p> - -<p> -From that moment she had amused herself playing with the young animal. -She meant no harm, she meant no good. She enjoyed exciting the young -lover. For her it was a matter of no moment. She never suspected how -serious it might be for the boy. But for him (for him who, in spite of -appearances, was the true child of Annette) it was tragic. -</p> - -<p> -Since the first time he had seen her, she had been for him the forbidden -Paradise, that marvellous mirage, woman, which appears before the -awakening glance of an innocent child. The fascinating image is shaped -as much from what exists as from what does not exist, as much from what -he sees as from what he does not see, what he does not know, what he -fears and desires, what he wants and what he does not want, the -terrifying attraction that thrills the adolescent body at the ecstatic, -brutal appeal of nature. As for Noémi's features, he probably did not -see one of them just as it was. But each of her features and each of her -movements, the folds of her dress, the curls of her hair, her voice, her -perfume, and the gleam of her eyes, everything stirred in his hungry -heart and body the wild, leaping waves of joy and hope, cries of -happiness, the need of tears. -</p> - -<p> -On the very day when the heart-broken Annette saw him so hard, so hostile, -so icy, when her awkward effort to learn the cause, to drag out of him one -word, one single word of affection, had brought down upon her a cutting -reply—on just that day the young boy had had his most moving -revelation of the enchanted dream. For eight days he had been living in -a state of intoxication. Noémi, whom he continued to see, without his -mother's knowing it, and who used him as a little spy who innocently -brought her word of all the movements in the enemy's camp—Noémi, whom -he had once surprised in her drawing-room, looking at herself, as she -talked, in a tiny mirror hidden in the folds of her handkerchief, had -amused herself painting his pale lips with her lipstick. He had had in -his mouth the taste of the beloved mouth. And ever since he had carried -it on the tongue that sucked it; he was impregnated with it. He saw this -pomegranate red, this ever-open mouth with the lip drawn up, too short -and too restless to meet the other lip, which was as full as a -cherry—saw it everywhere on that morning when, leaving his mother's -apartment, after rudely slamming the door, he decided to play hockey -from school and go for a walk. It blossomed in the cloud-orchard of the -beautiful July sky, in the little playful ripples of a fountain, in the -absent-minded smiles of passing women. It obsessed him. -</p> - -<p> -He was walking at random, with his blond head bare to the summer wind. -But, abstracted as he was and full of his own fancies, his lynx-eyes -recognized his Aunt Sylvie, in the distance, coming towards him on the -other sidewalk. He hastily turned off into a side street. The last thing -he wanted was to meet her. Not that he was afraid of being caught -playing truant: she would have been much more likely to laugh at that. -But when he had a secret, with her—it was not like this with his -mother!—he never felt safe. Of secrets of this kind, his instinct -told him, Aunt Sylvie was an expert reader. -</p> - -<p> -She had not seen him. He breathed freely again. He could enjoy his love -the whole morning. And as he strolled along—his love did not prevent -him from halting before the shop-windows to look at a necktie, a trifle of -some kind, an illustrated paper—his steps led him unawares straight -to his goal. He was like those pigeons in Paris that fly every morning -over the great piles of dusty houses seeking the green gardens and cool -old trees. The boy was seeking them too. He felt the need of their -rustling shade. -</p> - -<p> -He went down the Mont Sainte-Geneviève and, leaving the old, crowded -streets, found himself in the clear, calm spaces of the Jardin des -Plantes before he was aware that this was the spot to which he had -wished to come. -</p> - -<p> -There were few people here at this hour. A handful of scattered -strollers. Paris hummed like a hive in the distance. The blue vibration -of a beautiful summer morning. He picked out a bench that was hidden at -the foot of a group of trees, and he closed his eyes on his treasure. He -pressed his long, feverish, adolescent hands against his breast as if he -wished to shelter his heart from rash eyes. What was he hiding, what -thing so precious that he scarcely dared to think of it? A remark Noémi -had thoughtlessly uttered, a remark of which he had made a world. . . . -The last time he had seen her she had thrown him a chance smile. She had -been scarcely aware of the boy's presence, for her attention was -absorbed in the great things that had happened (the reconquest of -Philippe, the humiliation of Annette, the final victory! . . . "But one -never knows! Nothing is certain. Let us be satisfied with to-day! . . .") -She sighed from fatigue, relaxation, pleasure. Marc asked her why. -Amused by the boy's alarmed, ingenuous gaze, she said, with another -great sigh, to puzzle him, "It's a secret." -</p> - -<p> -"What secret?" -</p> - -<p> -A malicious thought darted through her mind and Noémi replied, "I can't -tell you. You must guess." -</p> - -<p> -Trembling with emotion, he said, "I don't know. Tell me." -</p> - -<p> -She lowered her lids over her languorous eyes. "No, no, no!" -</p> - -<p> -Blushing, stammering, he was afraid to understand. -</p> - -<p> -To keep up the game, she assumed a mysterious air and said, "Would you -like to have it?" -</p> - -<p> -In his emotion he was ready to cry, "No!" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, not to-day. . . . I'll tell you some other time." -</p> - -<p> -"When?" -</p> - -<p> -"Soon." -</p> - -<p> -"How soon?" -</p> - -<p> -"Soon. . . . Next week, when you come to dinner." -</p> - -<p> -The week had passed. This was the evening, Marc was thinking, when he -was to see her again. He was only living in the expectation of that -moment. He had lived it through twenty times in advance! He never dared -to go to the end of the scene. It was too agonizing. . . . But to linger -on the way was so sweet! On the garden-bench he gave way to his languor. -A clock struck noon. Behind a screen of trees the sand of a sunny path -crunched under the feet of a little girl who passed singing. Further on, -in an aviary, some exotic birds were chirping in a strange, agitating -language. From far away, on the Seine, came the long-drawn-out sound of -the siren of a tug. And noiselessly, without seeing him, two lovers -passed him slowly with their arms entwined as they walked, a tall, dark -girl and a pale young workman whose lips touched and who devoured each -other with their eyes. Holding his breath, the boy gazed after them till -their path turned, and as they disappeared he sobbed with happiness, the -happiness that had passed, the happiness that was coming. The happiness -that was in them, in everything that surrounded him, in this July -noon—in his own burning heart which embraced it all. -</p> - -<p> -He went home in the halo of this moment of ecstasy. It was infinitely -greater than the feminine image that had aroused it. The shadow of -Noémi melted into a golden bath, and he had to make an effort to summon -it up again. Marc tried to do so, but it escaped him. He was cheating -himself, pretending to find under this happiness, which was so intense -that it was painful, in everything that filled his heart to overflowing, -the boundless hopes, the heroic resolutions, the strength and good will -that bore him up like wings as he ran upstairs, four steps at a time. -But the moment he caught sight of his mother's severe face—he was -three-quarters of an hour late for lunch—the glory faded. He fell -back beneath the sullen cloud of silence. -</p> - -<p> -Annette did not try to talk to him. She had her own burden of anxieties, -and she could not share his. Her son, sitting opposite her at table, -seemed self-centred and far away. He ate ravenously. He was hungry and -eager to finish so that he could plunge back again into his daydreams. -</p> - -<p> -Annette thought, "I am nothing to him but the person who gives him his -food." -</p> - -<p> -She no longer had even the courage to protest. She felt abandoned. -Towards the end of the meal he became aware that he had not spoken, and -he felt vaguely remorseful. But he was afraid that if he said a word she -would begin to question him. He thrust his badly folded napkin into its -ring, rose hurriedly, and, taking care not to catch his mother's eye, -went out . . . or was going out, when, on a sudden impulse, he -asked—he was sure, for Noémi had told him, but he wanted -confirmation—"It's tonight we are dining at the Villards'?" -</p> - -<p> -Annette, who was still sitting there, motionless and dejected, said, -without looking up, "We are not dining out." -</p> - -<p> -Marc stopped, astonished, on the threshold. "What! They told me so!" -</p> - -<p> -"Who told you?" -</p> - -<p> -In his embarrassment the boy did not answer. His mother knew nothing -about his visits to Noémi. He hastened to turn aside the question with -another question, "But when are we going, then?" -</p> - -<p> -Annette shrugged her shoulders. There were never going to be any more -dinners at the Villards'. Noémi had said, for fun, "Next week," as she -might have said, "In the year forty." -</p> - -<p> -Marc let go of the door-knob and turned back in distress. Annette looked -at him, saw how disappointed he was, and said, "I don't know." -</p> - -<p> -"What! You don't know?" -</p> - -<p> -"The Villards have gone away," said Annette. -</p> - -<p> -"No!" Marc cried. -</p> - -<p> -She did not seem to hear him. Marc laid an impatient hand on his -mother's arm, which was stretched out over the table, and besought her, -"It isn't true?" -</p> - -<p> -Annette roused herself from her torpor, rose and began to clear the -table. -</p> - -<p> -"But where, where?" cried Marc, overwhelmed. -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know," said Annette. She gathered up the dishes and went out. -</p> - -<p> -Marc stood there, haggard, before his ruined dream. He did not -understand. This sudden departure, without a word of warning. . . . -Impossible! . . . He started to follow his mother, to drag some -explanation out of her. But, no! He stopped short. . . . No, this wasn't -true! He understood now. . . . Annette had discovered his love. She -wanted to separate them. She was lying, she was lying! Noémi had not -gone away. . . . And he hated his mother. -</p> - -<p> -He slipped out of the apartment, tumbled down the stairs, walked, ran, -with a beating heart, to the Villards'. He was going to make sure that -they had not left. And as a matter of fact, they were there. The footman -said that Monsieur had just gone out; Madame was tired and was not -receiving anyone. But Marc urged that she would let him have a moment's -conversation with her. The servant returned. Madame was sorry, but it -was impossible. The boy insisted, feverishly, that he must see her just -for a moment; he had something very important to tell her. . . . -Meanwhile, he said all sorts of incoherent things, stuttering and -choking in a broken voice, making awkward gestures; he blushed, he was -on the point of weeping. The curious, mocking eyes of the impassive -footman made him lose the thread of his ideas. He was pushed towards the -door. He resisted stupidly, crying out that he forbade anyone to touch -him. The servant told him to get out, said that if he did not hold his -tongue he would telephone to the concierge and have him taken down by -force. . . . The door closed behind him. Ashamed and furious, he -remained on the threshold, unable to make up his mind to leave. And as -he leaned mechanically against the door, he saw it was not shut tight -and was yielding. He pushed it open and stepped inside again. He meant -at all costs to reach Noémi. The vestibule was empty. He knew where the -room was and slipped into the corridor. He heard Noémi's voice from -within. She was saying to the footman, "Never in the world! He bores me -to death! You did quite right in pushing him out, the little fool!" -</p> - -<p> -He found himself back on the landing. He fled, he wept, he ground his -teeth, he was distracted. He sat down, choking, on one of the steps of -the staircase. He did not want people to see him crying in the street. -</p> - -<p> -Wiping away his tears, he assumed an air of calm that covered his mad -grief and, without knowing where he was going, he set out for home -again. He was desperate. To die, he wanted to die! Life was no longer -posable. It was too ugly, too base, it lied, everything lied. He could -not breathe. As he crossed the Seine he thought of flinging himself into -it. But another unfortunate had been ahead of him. The banks looked as -if they were blade with flies. Thousands of women and children were -leaning over the parapet, eagerly watching as the drowned man was drawn -out. What feelings stirred them? A very few felt a sadistic thrill. A -few more felt pity. The immense majority felt the attraction of the -unusual event, idle curiosity. A good number, perhaps, looked into their -own hearts to see how a person suffers ("how I might suffer"), to see -how a person dies ("how I might die"). Marc perceived only a base -curiosity, and it horrified him. Kill himself, yes, but not in public! -He was like Annette. He had a shy, fierce pride; he could never make a -spectacle of himself before this rabble, never be mauled by their hands, -violated in his nakedness by their dirty glances. He clenched his teeth -and hurried home, hurried faster, resolved to kill himself. -</p> - -<p> -In the course of the minute searches which, during his mother's -absences, he had devoted to the apartment he had found a revolver. It -was Noémi's; Annette had picked it up after she had left and placed it, -too carelessly, in a drawer. He had appropriated it and hidden it. His -mind was made up. As, with a child, an act, whenever it is possible, -immediately follows the thought, Marc meant to carry out his resolution -at once. Re-entering the apartment as noiselessly as he had gone out, he -shut himself up in his room and loaded the revolver as he had seen a -schoolmate do: the latter, who was hardly older than himself, had -carried one of these dangerous playthings in his pocket and, holding it -between his legs, in the Greek class, had explained to his attentive -neighbors how to handle it. The weapon was ready now. Marc was prepared -to fire. . . . Where should he place himself? He must not miss. There, -standing before his mirror. . . . But afterwards where would he -fall? . . . It would be better to sit here, leaning on the table, with the -mirror in front of him. He unhooked the mirror, placed it on the table, -and propped it up with a dictionary. . . . There, he could see himself -perfectly. He took the revolver and pressed it. . . . Where? Against the -temple; they say that's the best place. . . . Would it hurt very much? -He did not give a thought to his mother. His passion, his sufferings and -the preparations completely occupied him. . . . His eyes in the mirror -touched his heart. . . . Poor Marc! . . . He felt the need of -expressing, of making known before he disappeared, what he had suffered -from the world and how much he despised it. . . . The need of avenging -himself, of leaving regrets behind him, of arousing admiration. . . . He -hunted up a big sheet of school-paper, folded it across—he was in a -hurry—and wrote in his uncertain, laborious, childish script, "<i>I -cannot live any longer, for she has betrayed me. The whole world is -wicked. I don't love anything any longer, so I would rather die. All -women are liars. They are mean. They don't know how to love. I despise -her. When they bury me I ask them to put this paper over me: 'I die for -Noémi</i>.'" -</p> - -<p> -At this dear name he wept; he pressed his handkerchief against his mouth -in order not to make a noise. He wiped away his tears, reread his lines, -and thought gravely, "I mustn't compromise her." -</p> - -<p> -Then he tore up the sheet and began again. Almost in spite of himself he -breathlessly dashed off his despairing lines. When he reached the sentence -"<i>They don't know how to love</i>," he continued, "<i>I have known -and I die</i>." In the midst of his grief he was very much pleased with -this phrase: it almost consoled him. It disposed him to be kind to those -he was leaving behind him, and he ended generously, "<i>I forgive you -all</i>." He added his signature. A few seconds more and all would be over; -he would be delivered, and he saw in advance the fine effect it would -produce. But just as he was passing the pen once more over the childish -flourishes where the ink had failed, the door of the little room opened -suddenly behind him. He had just enough time to hide the weapon and the -papers under his arms. Annette saw only the mirror placed against the -dictionary and she thought Marc was admiring himself. She made no -comment. She seemed terribly tired and, in a low voice, as if she were -exhausted, she said she had forgotten to buy milk for dinner and that -Marc would be very kind if he would spare her the trouble of climbing up -and down the four flights by going after it. As for him, he had only one -idea, that she should not see what his arms covered. He did not wish to -move and replied roughly that he did not have the time; he was busy. -With a sad smile, Annette closed the door and went out. -</p> - -<p> -He heard her slowly descending the stairs. (She had looked worn out.) He -was seized with remorse. He could not forget the expression of her face -and her tired voice. . . . He threw the revolver hastily into a drawer, -buried the <i>farewells to life</i> under a pile of books and rushed out of -the apartment. He jostled his mother on the stairs and called to her, in -a cross voice, that he was going to do the errand. Annette came upstairs -again, her heart somewhat lightened. She was thinking that the boy was -not as contrary as he seemed. But she had been pained by his rudeness -and his harshness. Heavens, how unaffectionate he was! . . . Well, so -much the better for him! Poor child, he would suffer less from -life. . . . -</p> - -<p> -When Marc came back, he had quite forgotten his intention to commit -suicide. It gave him no pleasure to find the famous Testament, -imperfectly hidden, on his table. He hastened to place it completely out -of sight in the bottom of a band-box. He dismissed the depressing -thought. He felt now how cowardly, how cruel, it would have been to his -mother, whose health worried him. But he expressed his concern clumsily; -he did not know how to ask her about it and she did not know how to -reply. Through misplaced pride he did not want to show his real -feelings; it would have seemed as if he were awkwardly performing a mere -polite duty. And she, as proud as himself, did not want to worry him, -and she turned the conversation away from it. So they both fell back -into their silence. Freed from his anxiety, Marc now felt that he had -the right to be angry with his mother because for her he had sacrificed -his suicide. . . . He was well aware that he no longer felt the least -desire for this; but he needed to avenge himself for what he had -suffered. When you cannot avenge yourself on others you do so on your -mother; she is always there, at hand, and she does not strike back. -</p> - -<p> -So they remained walled-up, each one absorbed in his own grief. And -Marc, whose own sorrow had begun to weigh upon him, felt his animosity -against Annette's increasing. He was relieved when he heard the door-bell -announcing Aunt Sylvie—for he knew her ring. She had come to -take him to a performance of Isadora's, for she had suddenly gone crazy -over dancing. In spite of the duty that he felt to retain in his soul -and also on his face—especially on his face—the fatal mark of -the ordeal through which he had passed, he could not hide his joy at -escaping. He ran to dress, leaving the door open so as to lose none of -the gay talk of his aunt, who, the moment she had arrived, had launched -into a frivolous story. And Annette, who was forcing herself to smile, -though she was broken-hearted, thought, "Can this be the woman who cried -her heart out a year ago over her child's body? Has she forgotten?" -</p> - -<p> -She did not envy this elasticity. But her son's laugh, as he answered -Sylvie's sallies from the other room, evidenced an equal gift of -forgetfulness. Annette, who was pained by this apparent heartlessness, -did not know that she too possessed this cruel and marvellous gift. When -Marc reappeared, beaming, ready to start, she could not command her face -enough to conceal her harsh disapproval. Marc was more hurt by this than -he would have been by out-and-out censure. He avenged himself by -exaggerating his gaiety. He became almost noisy and seemed in such a -hurry to get away that he forgot to say good-bye to his mother. He -thought of it after he had gone out. Should he go back? Let her worry! -He pouted. It comforted him to leave behind him that reproachful face, -that sadness, the depressing atmosphere he felt in the house, and the -disturbing traces of the day's troubles. . . . That immense day! . . . A -whole world! . . . Several lifetimes in a few hours, the peak of joy and -the depths of despair. . . He ought to have been crushed under such a -load of emotions, but it weighed no more on the elastic adolescent than -a bird weighs on a branch. The bird flies away, the branch swings back -and sways in the wind. They had flown away, the joys and sorrows of the -day that was past! Only a dream remained of them. To enjoy the new joys -and the new sorrows, he hastened to efface it. -</p> - -<p> -But Annette, who had no means of knowing what was passing through his -head, Annette, who, like him, was a passionate soul, attributed -everything to herself; and, as she listened to his laughter receding -down the stairs, she was struck to the heart by his joy at leaving her. -She thought he hated her, for her passion always exaggerated things in -every way. . . . She was a burden on him, yes, that was quite clear. He -longed to be free from her. When she was dead he would be happier. . . . -Happier! . . . She would be happier too. It stabbed her through and -through, this absurd thought that her son, her child, might desire her -death. . . . (Absurd? Who can tell? In his innermost heart, in a -moment's madness, what child has not desired his mother's death?) . . . -The terror of this intuition, striking Annette at this moment when she -was holding on to life with one weak hand, was a mortal blow to her. -</p> - -<p> -All day she had been devastated by the furious return of her passion. -Now that her decision had been made and carried out, the irreparable -deed consummated, now that she had deliberately done her duty, she no -longer had the strength to resist the attack of the enemy within. And -the enemy had rushed upon her like a torrent. -</p> - -<p> -She was a party to it. She had opened the gates to it. When all is lost, -one has at least the right to enjoy one's despair! My suffering concerns -only myself. Let me feel the whole of it. Bleed, bleed, my heart! Let me -stab you by forcing you to see again all you have lost! Philippe. . . . -He was there before her. . . . The evocation was so strong that she saw -him, spoke to him, touched him. . . . He, everything that she loved in -him, the attraction of that which resembles and that which is opposed to -us, the antagonistic union, burning with the double fire of love and -combat, the embrace and the struggle: they are the same thing. And this -illusory embrace had such a carnal violence that the possessed soul, -possessed by love, bent like Leda beneath the swan. The flood of passion -ebbed despairingly. Then came those agonies that are part of the life of -every woman who is made for love and to whom her share of love has been -refused—agonies that come at this time of life when, if a love dies, -she thinks that love itself is dying. On this night Annette, alone in -her room, abandoned by her son, with her passion mutilated, suffered -tortures in the destitution of her heart, and the haunting belief that -love was lost forever, that life was lost without love, gripped her by -the throat. It did not give her a moment's respite. She drove it away; -it returned. Annette tried in vain to fill her mind with other things. -She picked up her work, tossed it aside, got up, sat down. With her head -on the table, she wrung her hands. The fixed idea maddened her. She had -reached that point of suffering when to escape from herself a woman is -ready for the worst aberrations. Annette felt that she was on the verge -of madness, and she was aware, in her delirium, of a savage impulse, the -frightful desire to go down into the street and to debase herself in her -fury, destroy her body and her tortured heart, prostitute herself to the -first man she met. When she became aware of this bestial thought, she -cried out in horror; and as a result of this horror the infamous idea -would not relax its grip. Then, like her son, she thought of killing -herself. She could no longer control her obsession. . . . -</p> - -<p> -She rose and went towards the door, but to reach it she had to pass -close to the open window; she decided that, once there, she would fling -herself out! . . . A strange instinct of purity that wished to save her -soul from pollution! That illusory soul! Her reason was not duped by the -conventional morality. But her instinct was stronger and it saw more -clearly. . . . Entirely occupied by her double obsession—the door and -the window—she did not see what was close to her. Walking towards the -window, she struck herself violently in the stomach against the sharp -corner of the sideboard. The pain was so severe that she could not -breathe. Doubled over, with her hands on the wounded spot, she felt a -keen, revengeful joy that her stomach had been struck. She would have -liked to break to pieces in her body the blind and drunken master, the -tiger-god. . . . Then the reaction came. She sank down on a low chair -that fitted in between the sideboard and the window, and her strength -failed her. Her hands were icy, her face beaded with perspiration; the -beating of her disordered heart wavered. Ready to slip into the abyss, -she had only one thought, "Quicker, quicker! . . ." -</p> - -<p> -She fainted. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XLIX">XLIX</a></h4> - -<p> -When she opened her eyes again—(When was it? After a few -seconds? . . . A gulf . . . )—her head was thrown back as if on a -block, her neck was lying against the window-sill, her body wedged into -the narrow angle of the wall. She opened her eyes and over the dark roofs, -in the July night, she saw the stars. . . . One of them pierced her with -its divine gaze. -</p> - -<p> -Silence, unprecedented, vast as a plain. . . . Yet the wagons were -rolling by in the street below; the glasses on the sideboard vibrated. -She heard nothing. . . . Suspended between earth and sky. . . . "<i>A -noiseless fight</i>." . . . "<i>She was not entirely awake</i>. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -She put off the moment. She was afraid of finding again what she had -left behind—the horrible lassitude, the torment, the snare of love: -love, maternity, implacable egoism, that of nature who cares so little -for my troubles, who only watches till I awaken so as to break my -heart. . . . Never to wake again! . . . -</p> - -<p> -She became conscious, none the less. And she saw that the enemy was no -longer there. Her despair had vanished. . . . Vanished? No, it was still -there, but it was no longer in her. She saw it outside. She heard its -rustle. . . . Magic. . . . A terrible music disclosing unknown -spaces. . . . Paralyzed, Annette heard, as if some invisible hand were -conjuring it up in the room, the sound of sobbing, the Fatum of a Chopin -prelude. Her heart was flooded with a joy she had never before experienced. -It had nothing but the name in common with the poor joy of everyday life -which is afraid of pain, which only exists because it denies pain, -denies that immense joy which is also pain. . . . Annette listened with -closed eyes. The voice stopped. There was an expectant silence. And -suddenly from the torn soul a wild cry of deliverance flew upward as if -on wings. As a diamond leaves its track on a piece of glass, it streaked -across the vault of the night. In her exhaustion, as she lay on her hard -pillow, Annette, on the threshold of this night of sorrow, gave birth to -a new soul. . . . -</p> - -<p> -The silent cry whirled far away and disappeared in the abyss of thought. -Annette remained silent and motionless. A long time. . . . At last she -rose, her neck aching, her limbs stiff. But her soul was delivered. An -irresistible force pushed her towards the table. She did not know what -she was going to do. Her heart was in her throat. She could not keep it -all to herself. She took up her pen and, in a whirlwind of passion, -without metre, in a rough and jerky rhythm, in a single torrent, she -poured out the flood of pain. . . . -</p> - - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">You have come, your hand holds me,—I kiss your hand.</span><br /> -<span class="i0">In love, in fear,—I kiss your hand.</span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Love, you have come to destroy me. I know it well.</span><br /> -<span class="i0">My knees tremble. Come, destroy!—I kiss your hand.</span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">You eat the fruit and fling it away: bite my heart, it is yours!</span><br /> -<span class="i0">Blest be the wound your teeth make!—I kiss your hand.</span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">You want me—all; but, possessing all, you will possess nothing.</span><br /> -<span class="i0">You leave nothing but ruins.—I kiss your hand.</span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">To-morrow your hand, caressing me, will kill me.</span><br /> -<span class="i0">Even as I kiss it, I await the mortal stroke of your hand.</span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Kill me! Strike! In doing me evil, you will do me good.</span><br /> -<span class="i0">You deliver me, destroyer.—I kiss your hand.</span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Every blow that makes me bleed breaks a bond.</span><br /> -<span class="i0">You tear away the chains with the flesh.—I kiss your hand.</span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">You break the prison of my body, murderer,</span><br /> -<span class="i0">And through the breach my life escapes.—I kiss your hand.</span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I am the broken soil from which rises the grain</span><br /> -<span class="i0">Of the sorrow that you sowed.—I kiss your hand.</span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sow the sacred sorrow! May all the sorrow of the world</span><br /> -<span class="i0">Come to ripeness in my breast.—I kiss your hand, I kiss your</span><br /> -<span class="i2">hand. . . .</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -Tempest, sea-waves crashing against the rocks, a soul laden with spray, -flashing with lightning, a surf foaming with passions and tears dashed -up towards the sky. . . . -</p> - -<p> -And at the last cry of the wild birds the soul fell back suddenly. And -Annette, exhausted, flung herself on her bed and slept. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="L">L</a></h4> - -<p> -When morning came, nothing remained of the sorrows of the night but a -light snow that melted in the sun. . . . <i>Cosi la neve al sol si -disigilla</i>. . . . And the aching peace of a body that has fought and -knows it has conquered. -</p> - -<p> -She felt satiated, satiated with her grief. Grief is like passion. To -deliver oneself from it, one has to glut oneself with it. But few people -have the hardihood to do this. They feed the snarling dog with crumbs -from their table. The only people who conquer grief are those who dare -to embrace its excess, who say to it, "I take you to myself. You shall -bring forth children through me. . . ." That powerful embrace of the -creative soul, as brutal and fertile as actual possession. . . . -</p> - -<p> -On the table Annette found what she had written. She tore it up. These -disordered words had become as unbearable to her as the feelings they -expressed. She did not want to disturb the sense of well-being that -pervaded her. She had a feeling of relief, as if a knot, a link of the -chain, had just been broken. . . . And in a flash she had a vision of -the chain of servitudes from which, one by one, the soul slowly frees -itself through a series of existences, its own and those of others (they -are all the same). . . . And she asked herself: "Why, why these eternal -attachments, these eternal ruptures? Towards what liberation does desire -drive us in its sanguinary progress?" -</p> - -<p> -It was only for a moment. Why worry about what is going to happen? It -will pass, just like what has already happened. We know quite well that, -no matter what happens, we shall make our way through. As the saying -goes, that old heroic utterance of prayer and defiance: "May God only -not lay upon our shoulders heavier burdens than we can bear!" -</p> - -<p> -She had borne hers, that of a day. Well, one day at a time! . . . She -was eased in heart and body. . . . To strive, <i>to seek</i>, NOT <i>to -find, and not to yield</i>. . . . "It's all right. It's all right. . . . I -haven't wasted my time. . . . Leave the rest to to-morrow!" -</p> - -<p> -She rose. She was naked, and from over the roofs the morning sun bathed -her body and the room. . . . She was happy. . . . Yes, in spite of -everything! -</p> - -<p> -Everything about her was just as it had been yesterday: the sky, the -earth, the past and the future. But everything that had crushed her -yesterday was radiant to-day. -</p> - -<p> -Marc had come home very late in the evening. He had enjoyed himself -without his mother, and now he felt remorse at having left her alone and -made her sit up for him. For he knew that Annette would not go to bed -until he had returned, and he had expected an icy reception. Although he -was in the wrong he assumed as he went upstairs—if only for that -reason—an attitude of defiance. With an insolent smile on his lips, -although at bottom he was not sure of himself, he picked up the key from -under the doormat and opened the door. Hanging up his coat in the -vestibule, he listened. Silence. Nothing stirred. Noiselessly, he -tiptoed into his room and went to bed. He felt relieved. Serious matters -could wait until to-morrow! But before he was entirely undressed he was -seized with anxiety. This stillness was not natural. . . . Like his -mother he had a vivid imagination and one that was easily disturbed. . . . -What had happened? . . . He was a thousand miles from suspecting the -deadly storms that had raged that night in the room adjoining his own. -His mother was inexplicable and disturbing to him. He never knew what -she was thinking. Seized with alarm, in his nightshirt and bare feet, he -went and pressed his ear to Annette's door. He was reassured. She was -there. She was asleep; her breathing was loud and uneven. He pushed open -the door, fearing that she was ill, and stole up to the bed. By the -light from the street he saw her, stretched out flat on her back, with -her hair over her cheeks, with that tragic face which, in nights of old, -had stirred the curiosity of her companion Sylvie. Her breast rose and -fell heavily, harshly, violently, with difficulty. Marc was seized with -fear and pity for all the weariness and suffering he divined in this -body. Bending over the pillow, in a low, trembling voice, he murmured -"Mamma." -</p> - -<p> -As if she had heard the call from far away in her sleep, she made an -effort to free herself and groaned. The child drew back, frightened. She -relapsed into her immobility. Marc went back to bed. The thoughtlessness -of his age, the fatigue of the day, got the better of his anxiety. He -slept without waking until morning. -</p> - -<p> -When he got up, the fancies and fears of the past evening returned. He -was surprised that his mother was not yet visible. As a rule, she came -into his room to kiss him and say good-morning while he was in bed. She -had not come in this morning. But he heard her coming and going in the -neighboring room. He opened the door. Kneeling on the floor, she was -dusting the furniture and did not turn round. Marc said good-morning to -her. She turned her smiling eyes on him and said, "Good-morning, my -dear." Then she went on with her work, paying no more attention to him. -</p> - -<p> -He expected she would ask him about his evening. He detested these -questions, but when she did not ask them he was vexed. She went into her -room, put it in order and finished dressing. It was time for her -classes; she was getting ready to go out He saw her looking at herself -in the mirror, with dark circles about her eyes, her face still showing -lines of fatigue, but with a light in her eyes! Her mouth was smiling. -He was astonished at the sight. He had expected to find her sad and he -was even ready to pity her in his heart; this disturbed his plans. The -little man's logic was upset by it. -</p> - -<p> -But Annette had her own logic. "The heart has its reasons" which a sense -higher than reason understands. Annette had ceased to worry about what -others might think. She knew now that you must not ask others to -understand you. If they love you, it is with their eyes closed. They -don't close them often! . . . "Let them be as they wish to be! Whatever -they are, I love them. I cannot live without loving them. And if they -don't love me I have enough love in my heart both for myself and for -them." -</p> - -<p> -She smiled into the mirror with a smile that came from far deeper depths -than her eyes, smiled at the fire of which they were a spark, at eternal -Love. She let her arms fall from her head, turned towards her son, saw -the child's troubled face, remembered his evening out, took hold of the -tip of his chin, and, letting the syllables drop, said gaily, "You were -dancing? I'm so glad! And now you must sing!" -</p> - -<p> -She laughed as she saw his amazed expression, caressed him with her -eyes, kissed him on his nose and, picking up her bag from the table, -went out, saying, "Good-bye, my little cricket!" -</p> - -<p> -In the vestibule he heard her whistling a careless tune. (It was a -talent he envied her even while he despised it, for she whistled much -better than he.) -</p> - -<p> -He was indignant! This indecent gaiety after all the evening's -anxiety. . . . She had escaped him. He denounced the eternal -caprices of women, their lack of seriousness, as he had heard -others do . . . "<i>la donna mobile</i>." -</p> - -<p> -He was about to go out when a piece of paper in the scrap-basket caught -his attention. At a distance the sharp, prying eyes of the rapacious -child unthinkingly deciphered a few words on a fragment of the sheet. He -stopped short. . . . These words. . . . His mother's writing! He picked -them up, read them feverishly, at random at first, one at a time. These -flaming words! . . . As they were torn into bits, the emotion they called -up, interrupted in the midst of its flight, was all the more -fascinating. . . . He gathered them together, rummaged in the basket for -the smallest fragments, took them all and patiently pieced them -together. His hands trembled at the secret he had captured by surprise. -When he had assembled all the pieces and was able to grasp the poem as a -whole, he was completely taken aback. He did not understand it very -well, but the wild fervor of this solitary song revealed to him unknown -depths of passion and grief that exalted and dismayed him. Was it -possible that these stormy cries had come from his mother's breast? . . . -No, no, it wasn't possible! He wouldn't have it. He told himself that -she had copied them from a book. . . . But from what book? He couldn't -ask her. . . . And yet, suppose it wasn't taken from a book . . . ? The -tears came, the need of crying out his emotion, his love, a longing to -throw himself into his mother's arms, at her feet, to open his heart to -her, to read her own . . . And he couldn't do it. . . . -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -When his mother came home at noon for lunch, the boy, who had spent the -whole morning reading and copying the torn fragments and had thrust them -in an envelope into his breast, said nothing to her. Sitting at his -table, he even refrained from rising and turning his head towards her -when she entered. The more burning was his desire to know, the stiffer -was the constraint that led him to conceal his anxiety under a mask of -insensibility. If, after all, these tragic words were not Annette's! -Doubt returned to him at the sight of his mother's tranquil face. . . . -But the other, the upsetting doubt, persisted all the same. . . . -Supposing they were hers? . . . This woman, my mother? . . . Facing her -at table, he did not dare look at her. . . . But when her back was -turned and she moved about the room, looking for something, carrying a -plate, he stared at her eagerly with questioning eyes that asked: "Who -are you?" -</p> - -<p> -He could not define his troubled, fascinated, uneasy impression. But -Annette, full of her new life, noticed nothing. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="LI">LI</a></h4> - -<p> -In the afternoon they went out, each about his own business. Marc -watched his mother in the distance. He was torn by conflicting feelings: -he admired her, he was irritated by her. . . . Women were too much for -him! Women, every woman. At times they were so close, at other times so -very far away! A strange race. . . . Nothing about them is like -ourselves. One never knows what is going on in them, why they laugh, why -they cry. He scorned them, he despised them, he needed them, he pined -for them! He was angry with them just because of this obsession. He -could have bitten the neck of that woman who was walking by as he had -bitten Noémi's wrist—as he would have liked to bite it—till the -blood flowed! At this sudden memory his startled heart gave a leap. He -stopped, turned pale and spat with disgust. -</p> - -<p> -He crossed the Luxembourg Gardens, where the young men were playing. He -looked at them enviously. The best part of him, his secret desires, went -out towards manly activity, without love, without women—sport, heroic -games. But he was weakly: an unjust fate, his illness as a child, had -placed him in a position of inferiority in the race of his own -generation. And his sedentary life, his books, his dreams, the -companionship of women, the two sisters, had poisoned him with this -venom of love, transmitted by his mother, his aunt, his grandfather, by -all the blood of the Rivières. How he would have liked to spill that -blood, to open his veins! Ah, how he envied those young men with their -beautiful limbs, empty of thought, full of light! -</p> - -<p> -All the riches that were his he despised. He could think of nothing but -those of which he was deprived, the games and contests of harmonious -bodies. And in his injustice he did not see that other contest which his -mother was waging so close to him. . . . -</p> - -<p> -She walked on. The summer was pouring its splendid waves over the city. -The blue gaze of the sky bathed the tops of the houses. . . . How good -it would have been to be far away from the city in the fields! . . . But -that was more than she could ask for: Annette did not have the means to -leave Paris. No doubt Marc would be able to go off for a few weeks with -his aunt to some beach in Normandy. But Annette would not go; her pride -would not allow her to be a charge on her sister. Besides, ever since -the days when she had seen them with her father, she had felt an -aversion for summer-resorts, with all their bored people, those -flirtations of the idle and the curious. She would stay at home alone. -She did not mind this. She carried within herself the sea and the sky, -the sunsets behind the hills, the milky fogs, the fields stretching out -under the shroud of moonlight, the calm death of the nights. In the -August afternoon, breathing the warm air, amid the uproar of the streets -and the flood of human beings, Annette crossed Paris with the quick, -sure step, the light, rhythmical step of other days, noting everything -as she passed and yet very far away. . . . In the great, dusty street, -shaken by the wheels of the heavy autobusses, she was wandering in her -thought under the vaults of the forest in that Burgundian countryside -where she had spent her happy childhood, and her nostrils caught the -odor of bark and moss. She was walking over the fallen autumn leaves. A -rain-laden wind swept through the stripped branches, brushing her cheek -with its damp wing; a bird's song flowed magically through the silence; -the rain-laden wind passed her. . . . Through these woods the young -Annette passed also with her weeping lover, and there was the hawthorne -hedge, there were the bees about the abandoned house. . . . Joys and -sorrows. . . . So far away! She smiled at her own youthful image to -which suffering was still so new. . . . "Wait, my poor Annette, you are -only at the beginning. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -"Do you regret nothing?" -</p> - -<p> -"Nothing!" -</p> - -<p> -"Neither what you have done nor what you have failed to do?" -</p> - -<p> -"Nothing, deceitful spirit! Were you trying to spy out my regrets? You -will find that your labor is lost! I accept everything, everything I -have had and everything I have not had, my whole lot, wise and foolish. -Everything has been as it should have been, the wise and the foolish. -One makes mistakes: that is life. But it is never quite a mistake to -have loved. Although age is overtaking me, my heart, at least, has no -wrinkles. And although it has suffered, it is happy to have loved." And -her grateful mind turned, with a smile, to those whom she had loved. -</p> - -<p> -There was much tenderness in this smile and not a little French irony. -Touched as she was at the thought of them, Annette perceived, curiously -enough, the ridiculous side of all these torments, her own and those of -others . . . that pitiful fever of desire and waiting! For what was she -waiting? An end of love, for herself. For the others, too, in their -turn! -</p> - -<p> -She saw the others, her son, with his burning hands, quivering to grasp -the uncertain future; Philippe, dissatisfied with the commonplace food -that society offered his devouring hunger; Sylvie, trying to forget and -looking to the future that would fill the gaping emptiness of her heart; -the multitude of ordinary people yawning over the boredom of their life; -and youth, restless youth, wandering and waiting. . . . For what was it -waiting? Towards what were its hands stretched out? -</p> - -<p> -Liberated from herself, she looked at all these burden-bearers, saw that -herd, that mob in the streets, hastening, running, each ignoring every -one else, each as if pursued by the sheep-dogs, and, under the apparent -disorder, the sovereign rhythm—all believing they directed -themselves, all directed. . . . Towards what? Whither was he leading them, -the invisible shepherd? . . . The good shepherd? . . . No! Beyond good and -evil. . . . -</p> - -<p> -She gave her lessons as usual, patient and attentive, listening kindly, -explaining clearly, making no mistakes. Even as she spoke, the dream -continued to envelop her. Whoever has formed the habit finds it easy to -live two lives at a time, one on a level with the ground, with other -men, the other in the depths of the dream that is bathed by the inner -sun. One neglects neither of them. One reads them both with a glance as -a musician's eye reads a score. Life is a symphony: each moment of life -sings in several parts. The reverberation of this warm harmony brought -the color to Annette's face. Her pupils to-day were astonished at her -youthful air, and they conceived for her one of those strong attachments -which the young feel for their elders, the Heralds of life, and which -they dare not confess. Annette knew nothing of the wake of love that her -passing left that day in the hearts of those who were near her. -</p> - -<p> -She came home towards evening in the same aerial state. With her light -heart, she felt as if she were moving on air. She could not have -explained it. The powerful enigma of a woman enveloped in her own -radiance, in a joy without apparent reason, even in the face of reason! -Everything that surrounds her, the whole external world is, at these -moments, only a theme for the free improvisations of the passionate -fantasy of her dreams. -</p> - -<p> -She threaded her way, in the streets, through anxious groups of people. -The newsboys were running about shouting the news which the passers-by -were discussing. She saw and heard nothing. From a passing tram someone -shouted something to her; she recalled who it was a moment -later—Sylvie's husband. Without hearing what he said she had replied -with a gay wave of her hand. . . . How excited everyone was! . . . Once -more she had the brief sense of a dizzy current which, like the whirling -spirals of star-dust, was rushing through a crevice in the vault into -the abyss that drew it down. . . . What abyss? . . . -</p> - -<p> -She climbed up to her apartment. Marc was awaiting her on the threshold, -his eyes shining, and behind him, Sylvie, very much excited. They were -eager to tell her the news. . . . What was it? Both spoke at once; each -of them wanted to be the first. . . . -</p> - -<p> -"But what on earth are you trying to tell me?" she said, laughing. -</p> - -<p> -She distinguished one word, "War." -</p> - -<p> -"War? What war?" But she was not surprised. . . . The abyss. . . . "So -it was you? For a long time I have felt your breath drawing us -down. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -Their exclamations went on. To please them she roused herself—a -little—from her somnambulistic state. . . . "War? Well, so be it! -War, peace, it's all life, all part of the game. . . . I'll take my -share! . . ." -</p> - -<p> -She was a good player, the enchanted soul! -</p> - -<p> -"I challenge God!" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>THE END</h4> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SUMMER ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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