She was returning, through the night. The moon had not yet appeared; it was still far off, but one could feel it rising behind the horizon, from an abyss of shadows. A feeble light edged the summits that encircled the plateau like the edges of a cup; and, minute by minute, their black profiles grew clearer against an aureoled background. Annette walked unhurriedly; and her breast, breathing regularly once more, was drinking in the scent of new-mown meadows.
Far off in the darkness, she heard precipitate steps upon the road. Her heart pounded. She halted. She recognized them, and then walked forward again, at a quicker pace, to meet them. Someone had heard on the other side, too. An anxious voice called:
"Annette!"
Annette did not reply, she could not; she was seized with the joy that coursed through her: all of her suffering, all was effaced. She did not answer, but she walked faster, still faster. And the other was running now. She repeated, "Annette!" in an agonized voice.
In the vague phosphorescence of the moon, that was climbing up behind the great dark wall, an indistinct figure emerged from the whitening shadow. Annette cried, "Darling!" and flung herself forward with outstretched arms, like a blind person. . . .
In their haste to be united, their bodies collided. Their arms went around each other. Their lips sought, and found . . .
"My own Annette!"
"My own Sylvie!"
"My sister! my love!"
"My little darling!"
In the darkness they were running their hands caressingly over cheeks and hair, over neck and shoulders, once more taking possession of happiness, of the friend who had been lost.
"Darling!" exclaimed Sylvie, feeling Annette's bare shoulders, "you haven't your cloak! You have nothing around you! . . ."
Annette realized that as a matter of fact she was clad only in her evening dress; and, seized by a chill, she shivered.
"You are mad! you are mad!" cried Sylvie, enveloping her, clasping her in her cape. And her hands, continuing their inspection, took note of damages.
"Your dress is torn. . . . What in the world have you been doing? What has happened? . . . And your hair is down over your face. And here, here, what's the matter with your forehead? . . . Annette, did you fall? . . .”
Annette did not respond. With her mouth on Sylvie's shoulder, she abandoned herself and wept. Sylvie made her sit down beside her on a bank by the road. The moon, clearing the barrier of the mountains, lighted up Annette's injured forehead, and Sylvie covered it with kisses.
"Tell me what you have been doing. . . . Tell me what's happened. . . . My treasure, my little lamb, I was so upset when I went to your room and didn't find you there! I called you everywhere. . . . I've been hunting for you for an hour. . . . Oh! I was so miserable. . . . I was afraid, I was afraid. . . . I can't say what I was afraid of. . . . Why did you go off? Why did you run away? . . ."
Annette did not wish to reply.
"I don't know," she said. "I felt ill, and I wanted to walk . . . to breathe. . . ."
"No, you aren't telling the truth, Annette; tell me everything!"
Then she bent over her and said more softly:
"Dear heart, it wasn't because of that? . . ."
Annette interrupted her:
"No! No!"
But Sylvie insisted.
"Don't lie! Tell me the truth. Tell me! Tell your little one! It was because of him?"
Annette, wiping her eyes and trying to smile, replied:
"No, I assure you. . . . I was a little hurt, it's true. . . . It's foolish. . . . But it's all over now. I'm glad he loves you."
Sylvie jumped up and struck her hands angrily together.
"So it was he! Oh! But I don't love him, I don't love him any more, that creature! . . ."
"Yes, you do love him. . . ."
"No! No! No!"
Sylvie stamped on the road.
"It amused me to love him, I did it as a game; but it meant nothing to me, nothing in comparison with you. . . . Why! All a man's kisses couldn't make up for one of your tears. . . ."
Annette was overwhelmed with happiness.
"You mean it? You mean it?"
Sylvie sprang into her arms.
When they had grown somewhat calmer, Sylvie said to Annette:
"Now confess! You loved him, too!"
"Too! Now you see! You admit that you loved him. . . ."
"No, I tell you. I forbid you to say so. . . . I won't hear any more about it. It's ended, ended."
"It's ended," Annette repeated.
They went back along the road bathed in the light of the moon, overjoyed at having recovered each other. Suddenly Sylvie halted, and, shaking her fist at the moon, she cried:
"Oh! the beast! . . . He'll pay me for it!"
And, as youth never loses its rights, she burst out laughing at her malediction.
"But do you know what we are going to do?" Sylvie continued spitefully. "We are going to pack as soon as we get back, and to-morrow, to-morrow morning, we'll be off by the first post. When he comes to the table at luncheon time, he'll find no one. . . . The birds will have flown! . . . Oh! . . . and then . . ." (she burst out laughing) "I made a date with him for about ten o'clock, in the woods up there. . . . He'll be running after me all morning. . . ."
She laughed more heartily than ever; and so did Annette. The spectacle of Tullio, disappointed and furious, seemed so amusing to them. The two madcaps! Already their sufferings were far away.
"Just the same," observed Annette, "it's not very nice, dear, to compromise yourself like that."
"Piffle! What's that to me?" replied Sylvie. "I don't matter. . . . Yes," she went on, taking a passing nip at Annette's hand that was patting her ear, "I should be more careful now that I'm your sister. . . . I will be, I promise you. . . . But you, my dear, you know that you weren't so much more careful."
"No, that's true," answered Annette contritely. "And I was afraid at times that I might be still less so. . . . Oh!" she exclaimed, pressing closer to her sister, "how strange the heart is! One never, never knows when it's going to rise up inside you and carry you away . . . whither?"
"Yes," said Sylvie, hugging her, "that's why I love you! That heart of yours is a powerful affair!"
They were ready to go in again. The roofs of the hotel were gleaming under the moonlight. Sylvie slipped her arm around Annette's neck and whispered in her ear with an intensity and a seriousness she herself did not realize:
"My darling! I shall never forget what you have suffered to-night . . . what you have suffered because of me. . . . Yes, yes, don't say no! I had time to think of it while I was running in search of you, trembling that some misfortune . . . If it had happened! . . . Oh! what would I have done! . . . I should have never come back."
"Darling," exclaimed Annette, deeply moved, "it was not your fault, you couldn't know how you were hurting me."
"I knew perfectly well. I knew that I was making you suffer, and it—listen, Annette!—it even gave me pleasure!"
Annette's heart contracted; and a short while ago she too had thought that she would like to make Sylvie suffer until the blood ran. She said so. They clasped each other in their arms.
"But what's the matter with us? What are we?" they asked each other, shamefaced and stricken, yet relieved to know that the other's feelings had been the same. . . .
"It was love," said Sylvie.
"Love," Annette repeated mechanically. Then she went on, frightened:
"That is love?"
"And you know," said Sylvie, "it was only the beginning."
Annette protested vigorously that she never wanted to love again.
Sylvie made fun of her. But Annette repeated in perfect seriousness:
"I don't want to any more. I'm not made for it."
"Oh, well," said Sylvie, laughing, "there's not a chance, my poor Annette! You, why you'll stop loving when you stop living!"