Despite the distance, and although certain streets were not very safe at this belated hour, Annette returned home on foot. She could easily have danced. When she finally reached the house, happy and troubled, she did not retire until she had placed the flowers in a vase beside her bed. And then she got up again to take them out and put them in her water jug, as they had been at Sylvie's. In bed again, she kept her lamp lighted, for she did not wish to take leave of this day. But suddenly, three hours later, she awakened in the middle of the night. The flowers were really there; it had not been a dream, she had seen Sylvie. . . . She fell asleep again, upon the breast of that dear image.
The days that followed were filled by the buzzing of bees erecting a new hive. Just as a swarm groups itself around a young queen, so Annette constructed a new future around Sylvie. The old hive was deserted; its queen was indeed dead. Attempting to mask this revolution in the palace, the passionate heart pretended to believe that its love for the father had been transferred to Sylvie, and that it would rediscover him there. . . . But Annette really knew that she was bidding him farewell.
There sounded the imperious voice of new love, which creates and destroys. . . . Memories of the father were thrust, pitilessly, from view. Familiar objects were relegated to the pious shadow of rooms in which they ran no risk of being frequently disturbed. The greatcoat was thrust into the bottom of an old closet. Having put it away, Annette took it out again indecisively, pressed her cheek against it, then suddenly in anger thrust it from her. Illogicality of passion! Which of the two was the traitor? . . .
She was enamoured of the sister she had discovered. She scarcely knew her! But as soon as one loves, such an uncertainty is only an added attraction. The mystery of the unknown is added to the charm of what one thinks one knows. Of the Sylvie she had glimpsed, she wished to remember only what had pleased her. Secretly she admitted that this was not very exact; but when she honestly sought to recall the shadows of the portrait, she heard the little slippers trotting down the hall, and felt Sylvie's bare arms clasped about her neck.
Sylvie was going to come. She had promised. . . . Annette was preparing everything for her reception. Where would she put her? There, in her pretty room. Sylvie would sit here, in her favorite place, before the open window. In imagination Annette saw everything through her sister's eyes, and took delight in showing Sylvie her house, her bibelots, her trees clothed in their softest greenery, and the vista yonder over the flowered hills. In sharing with Sylvie the grace and comforts of her life she enjoyed them with the freshness of new sensations. But the thought occurred to her that Sylvie's eyes might draw comparisons between her own lodging and the Boulogne house. A shadow fell across her joy. This inequality weighed upon her, as though it had been her fault. Couldn't she correct it by asking Sylvie to share with her the advantages that fate had given her? Yes, but this would be to give her still another advantage. And Annette foresaw that she would not gain her consent without a struggle. She remembered the mocking silence with which Sylvie had greeted her first invitations. Her sensitiveness would have to be humored. How could it be done? Annette reviewed four or five plans in her mind. None satisfied her. Ten times she changed the arrangement of the room: after having placed in it her most valuable possessions, with a childish pleasure, she carried them out again and left only the simplest things. There was not a detail—a flower on the landing, the place of a portrait—that she did not argue over. . . . Sylvie must not arrive before everything was in order! But Sylvie was in no hurry, and Annette had time to make and remake, again and again, her little arrangements. She found Sylvie very slow in coming, but she profited by this to revise her plans. Unconscious comedy! She was deluding herself by attributing importance to these trifles. All this bustle of arrangement and rearrangement was only a pretext to distract her attention from another bustle of passionate thoughts which was troubling the habitual order of her rational life.
The pretext wore itself out. This time all was ready. And Sylvie did not come. In imagination Annette had already welcomed her ten times. She was exhausted with waiting. . . . Yet she could not go back to Sylvie's! What if, when she went to see her again, she should read in Sylvie's bored eyes that her sister could get along very well without her! At the very idea Annette's pride bled. No, rather than this humiliation, it would be better never to see her again! Yet . . . She decided hastily, and dressed herself to go in search of the forgetful girl. But she had not finished buttoning her gloves before she lost courage; and, with her legs sinking under her, she sat down on a chair in the vestibule, not knowing what to do. . . .
And just at that moment,—when Annette had sunk down beside the door, with her hat on her head, all ready to go out, yet not able to make up her mind,—just then, Sylvie rang the bell!
Between the sound of the bell and the opening of the door ten seconds did not elapse. Such promptness and the sight of Annette's delighted eyes were enough to tell Sylvie that she was expected. They were already kissing each other, standing on the door-sill, before a word was said. Then Annette impetuously dragged Sylvie through the house, without letting go of her hands, devouring her with her eyes, and laughing foolishly to herself like a happy child. . . .
And nothing happened as she had anticipated. Not one of the prepared phrases of welcome served. She did not seat Sylvie in the chosen place. Turning their backs to the window, they both sat on the divan, side by side, gazing into each other's eyes, speaking without listening; their expressions said:
Annette: "At last! You are really here?"
Sylvie: "You see, I've come. . . ."
But Sylvie, having examined Annette, said: "You were going out?"
Annette shook her head without wishing to explain. Sylvie understood perfectly and, leaning over, she whispered:
"You were coming to my place?"
Annette started and, resting her cheek on her sister's shoulder, she murmured: "Bad girl!"
"Why?" demanded Sylvie, kissing Annette's fair eyebrows with the corner of her mouth.
Annette did not reply. Sylvie knew the answer. She smiled, peeking maliciously at Annette who was now avoiding her glance. The violent girl! Her spirit was broken. A sudden timidity had fallen upon her, like a net. They sat without stirring, the big sister leaning on the shoulder of the little one, who was satisfied at having so promptly established her power. . . .
Then Annette raised her head and, both mistresses of their first emotion, they began to talk like old friends.
No longer were their intentions hostile. On the contrary, each was desirous of surrendering herself to the other. . . . Oh, not completely, however! They knew that there are things in every one which it does not do to show. Even when one loves? Precisely when one loves! But what things, exactly? Each, while unbosoming herself, kept her secrets, sounding out the limits of what the other's love could bear. And more than one confidence that began frankly, oscillated uncertainly in the midst of a phrase, and then ran prettily into a little lie. They did not know each other; in more than one respect they were disconcerting enigmas to each other: two natures, two worlds, strangers in spite of all. For this visit, Sylvie—she had thought about it more than she would have admitted—had made herself as lovely as possible. And her possible was much. Annette was captured by her charm and at the same time embarrassed by certain little artifices of coquetry that made her uncomfortable. Sylvie perceived this, without trying to change in any way; and she was at once attracted and intimidated by this big sister of hers who was so free and so naïve, so ardent and so reserved. (To hear her chatter one would not have suspected the intimidation!) Both were keen and extremely observant, and they missed not a wink nor a thought. They were not yet sure of each other. Suspicious and expansive, they wished to give themselves; yes, but they did not wish to give without receiving. Each was possessed by a devil of petty pride. Annette's was the stronger; but in her the forces of love, too, were stronger, and she betrayed herself. When she gave more than she had wished, it was a defeat that Sylvie relished. So the two negotiators, burning to understand each other, but wisely circumspect, testing each movement, advanced cautiously. . . .
The duel was an unfair one. Very quickly Sylvie became aware of Annette's imperious and imploring love. She saw it more clearly than Annette herself. She tested it; with sheathed claws she played with it, without seeming to do so. Annette felt that she was conquered. It caused her shame and joy.
At Sylvie's request she showed her all her rooms. She would not have done this on her own initiative; she was afraid to gall her sister by displaying the comfort in which she lived, but to her relief Sylvie manifested not the slightest pique. She was perfectly at her ease, coming and going, looking and touching, as though she were at home. It was Annette, in fact, who was disturbed by this perfect poise; and at the same time her affection rejoiced in it. Passing by her sister's bed, Sylvie gave the pillow a friendly little pat. Curiously she examined the toilet table, making an accurate survey of the bottles at a glance; went absentmindedly into the library, enthused over a pair of curtains, criticised an arm-chair, tried another, poked her nose into a half-open cupboard, felt the silk of a dress; and, having made her tour, returned to Annette's bedroom where she sat down in the low armchair near the bed and went on with the conversation. Annette offered her tea, to which Sylvie preferred two fingers of sugared wine. Sucking a biscuit with the end of her tongue, Sylvie looked at Annette who was hesitating, wishing to speak; and she wanted to say to her:
"Out with it then!"
Finally Annette plucked up courage, and with a brusqueness that was caused by her suppressed affection she proposed to Sylvie that she come to live with her. Sylvie smiled, did not speak, swallowed her mouthful, dipped her crumbs and fingers in her wine, smiled again prettily, thanking her sister with eyes and a full mouth, shaking her head as one does when talking to a child. And then she said:
"Darling. . . ."
And she refused.
Annette insisted, pressing her; she tried to compel consent with an imperious violence. It was Sylvie's turn now not to wish to speak! She excused herself with half-words, in a caressing voice, slightly embarrassed and a little malicious as well. . . . (She was very fond of her big sister who was so abrupt, tender, and frank!) She said:
"I can't."
And Annette asked: "But why?"
And Sylvie replied: "I have a sweetheart."
For the space of a second Annette did not understand. Then she understood only too well, and she was dumbfounded. Watching her from the corner of one eye, Sylvie rose, still smiling, and left amid a twittering of little words and kisses.