With repulsion (and not without attraction, too) Annette witnessed the passage of those love affairs of which she had known nothing. They formed a motley and fantastic troop. In love as in art, Raoul's caprice was "period color." Annette recognized certain names belonging to her own world; and with hostility she recalled the smiles and caresses that she used to receive from certain favorites. Others belonged upon a less lofty social level; their spelling was no less free than the sentiments they expressed. Annette's disdainful pout was accentuated; but her mind, with sharp and mocking eyes like her father's, saw the comic aspect of these women who, leaning forward, with a wisp of hair in their eyes and the tip of their tongues thrust out, made their pens gallop over the paper. All these adventures, some a little longer, some a little shorter, but none very long after all, passed, succeeded one another, and effaced one another. Annette was grateful for that,—wounded, but disdainful.
She was not yet at the end of her discoveries. In another drawer, sedulously put apart (more carefully, she was forced to remark, than her mother's letters) a new bundle revealed a more enduring liaison. Although the dates were carelessly indicated, it was easy to see that this correspondence embraced a long period of years. It was in two handwritings: the one, incorrect, slovenly, and backhand, stopped half way through the packet; the other, childish at first, gradually grew firmer, and continued until the last years, even (and this discovery was particularly painful to Annette), up until the last months of her father's life. And this correspondent, who was robbing her of a part of that sacred period of which she had thought herself the unique possessor, this double intruder, was addressing her father as "Father!"
She experienced the sensation of an intolerable wound. With an angry gesture she flung her father's dressing-gown from her shoulders. The letters fell from her hands, and she sank back in her chair with dry eyes and burning cheeks. She did not analyse her own emotions. She was too moved by passion to know what she thought. But, with all her passion, she was thinking: "He deceived me! . . ."
Again she picked up the hateful letters, and this time she did not let them go until she had absorbed them down to the very last line. She read, breathing deeply with her mouth shut, burned by a hidden fire of jealousy, and by another sentiment, still obscure, that had been awakened. Not for a second did the idea occur to her, in penetrating the intimacy of this correspondence, in possessing herself of her father's secrets, that she might be guilty of a moral misdemeanor. Not for a second did she doubt her right. . . . (Her right! The spirit of reason was far away; another power, a despotic one, was speaking!) . . . On the contrary, she felt that it was she who was wounded in her right—in her right—by her father!
She recovered herself, however. She glimpsed, for an instant, the enormity of her pretension. What rights had she over him? What did he owe her? The imperious grumbling of passion answered: "Everything." Argument was useless! Annette, abandoned to her absurd resentment, suffered from the wound, and at the same time felt a bitter joy in those cruel forces that, for the first time, were thrusting their piercing goads into her flesh.
She spent a part of the night in reading. And when she finally went to bed, with her eyes closed she long continued to reread lines and words that made her start, until the deep sleep of youth overcame her, and she lay motionless, outstretched, breathing deeply, very calm, even relieved by the emotional expenditure that she had undergone.
She read again the next day; many times, during the days that followed, she reread the letters which never ceased to occupy her thoughts. Now she could almost reconstruct this life, this double life which had unrolled parallel to her own: the mother, a florist, whom Raoul had furnished funds to open a shop; the daughter, employed by a milliner, or perhaps a seamstress (it was not very clear). The one was named Delphine; and the other, the younger, Sylvie. To judge by their fantastic, negligent style of writing—a style that for all its carelessness was not lacking in charm—they resembled each other. Delphine seemed to have been a pleasant person who, despite a few little ruses that appeared here and there in her letters, could not have wearied Rivière very greatly with her demands. Neither the mother nor the daughter took life tragically. And besides, they seemed sure of Raoul's affection. It was perhaps the best way to conserve it. But this impertinent assurance ruffled Annette no less than did the extreme familiarity of their tone with him.
It was Sylvie who especially absorbed her jealous attention. The other had died, and Annette's pride affected to scorn the kind of intimacy that Delphine had enjoyed with her father; already she was forgetting that, a few days before, the discovery of similar attachments had been a sensible affront to her. Now that a much more profound intimacy had entered the lists, all other rivalries seemed negligible to her. With strained imagination she tried to picture to herself this stranger who, despite her ill will, was only half a stranger. The laughing ease, the calm familiarity of these letters in which Sylvie disposed of her father as though he were entirely her property, made Annette furious; she sought to outstare this insolent unknown so that she might confound her. But the little intruder defied her glance. She seemed to say: "It is my right: I am of his blood."
And the more irritated Annette became, the more this affirmation grew upon her. She fought against it too much not to gradually become accustomed to the combat, and even to the adversary. Finally, she could not get along without it. In the morning the first thought that greeted her upon awakening was of Sylvie; and now the sly voice of her rival said: "I am of your blood."
So clearly did she hear it, so vivid one night was the vision of her unknown sister, that Annette in her half-sleep stretched out her arms to seize her.
And the next day, provoked, protesting, but conquered, the desire held her and would not let her go. She left the house, in search of Sylvie.