After a white night—(she had drowsed for only an hour or two at dawn)—Annette arose, resolute. With the light of day, calm returned to her. She dressed herself and did her hair methodically, coldly, shutting out of her mind everything that might awaken its doubts, attentive to her toilet, which she made with an even more than ordinary meticulous attention to correct detail.
About nine o'clock Roger knocked gaily at her door. Following his morning custom, he had come to take her for a walk.
They set out, escorted by a gamboling dog. They took a road that led beneath the trees. The young, verdant woods were shot through with sunlight. The branches were alive with the songs and cries of birds. Every step sent them flying; there were beatings of wings, rustlings of leaves, clashing of branches, frenzied flights through the forest. The excited dog snapped and sniffed and zig-zagged. Jays were bickering. In the cupola of an oak, two ringdoves were cooing. And far away, the cuckoo was circling, circling, farther, then nearer, tirelessly repeating his ancient jest. It was the outburst of spring fever. . . .
Roger, noisy, very gay, laughing, and exciting his dog, was himself like a big, happy dog. Annette followed silently, at a few paces. She was thinking:
"Here! . . . No, yonder at the turning. . . ."
She was watching Roger. She was listening to the forest. How different all would be, after she had spoken! . . . The turn was passed. She had not spoken. . . . She said: "Roger . . ." in an uncertain, trembling voice, almost a whisper. . . . He did not hear it, he noticed nothing. Stooping down in front of her, he gathered some violets, and he talked, talked. . . . She repeated: "Roger!" this time in such an accent of distress that he turned around, startled. At once he saw the pallor of her gravely serious face; he came to her. . . . He was afraid already. She said:
"Roger, we must separate."
His features expressed stupefaction and dismay. He stammered:
"What's that you say? What's that you say?"
Avoiding his glance, she repeated firmly:
"We must separate, Roger; it is sad, but we must. I have come to see that it is impossible, impossible for me to be your wife. . . ."
She wanted to go on, but he prevented her.
"No, no, that's not true! . . . Be still! Be still! You are mad! . . ."
"I must go away, Roger," she said.
He shouted: "Go away, you! . . . I don't want you to! . . ."
He had seized her arms, and was squeezing them brutally. Then he caught sight of her proud face, obstinate and glacial; he felt that he was lost, he let go, he begged pardon, he prayed, he pleaded.
"Annette! My little Annette! Stay, stay! . . . No, it isn't possible. . . . But what has happened? What have I done?"
Pity reappeared on the firm face. She said:
"Let's sit down, Roger. . . ."
(He seated himself docilely beside her on a mossy bank: his eyes never left her, imploring at every word).
". . . Be calm, everything must be explained. . . . Be calm, I beg of you! . . . Believe me that I have to use all my strength to be. . . . I could not speak unless I forced myself to do so. . . ."
"But don't speak," he cried. "It is madness! . . ."
"It is necessary."
He tried to close her mouth. She pulled herself away. Despite the disturbance within her, her resolution seemed so inflexible that she imposed it on Roger who, abandoning the struggle, beaten and haggard, listened to her words, without daring to look at her. Annette, in a voice that seemed impassive, cold and mournful, but which was marked by sharp breaks, and which once or twice stopped to take breath along the way,—said what she had decided to say, in words that were clear, studied, and moderate, but which seemed all the more implacable for that. . . . She had sincerely wanted to test out whether they could live together. She hoped so at first, she wished it with all her heart. She had seen that this dream could not be realized. Too many things separated them. Too many differences in their surroundings and in their thoughts. She laid the blame at her own door; she had definitely recognized that she could not live a married life. She had conceptions of life, of independence, which did not accord with Roger's. Perhaps Roger was right. The majority of men, perhaps of women even, thought as he did. She was wrong, no doubt. But right or wrong, that was how she was. It was useless for her to cause another's misery and her own. She was made to live alone. She freed Roger from all promises made to her, and took back her own freedom. For the rest, they were not bound. Everything had been upright between them. They must separate uprightly, as friends. . . .
While speaking, she stared at the grass at her feet; she was very careful not to look at Roger. But, as she spoke, she heard his gasping breath, and it was a sore trial for her to go on to the end. When she had finished, she risked looking at him. In her turn, she was smitten. Roger's face was like that of a drowning man: flushed, breathing noisily, he had not the strength to cry out. Awkwardly he moved his clenched hands, sought and found his breath, and groaned:
"No, no, no, no, I cannot, I cannot . . ."
And he burst into sobs.
From a field by the edge of the woods, they heard the voice of a peasant, the noise of a plow-share. Annette, overcome with emotion, seized Roger by the arm and drew him away from the road, into the bushes, then further into the midst of the forest. Roger, devoid of strength, let himself be led, repeating:
"I cannot, I cannot. . . . What is going to become of me? . . ."
Tenderly she tried to keep him from speaking. But he was overwhelmed by his despair: the misery of his love, of his pride, the public humiliation, the ruined happiness that was to be his lot,—all these were at once commingled. This big child who had been spoiled by life, who had never seen anything resist his desire, broke down at this defeat: it was a catastrophe, a crumbling of all his certainties; he was losing faith in himself, he was losing his foothold, there was no way for him to turn. Annette, touched by this great grief, was saying:
"My sweetheart . . . my sweetheart. . . . Don't cry! . . . You have, you will have a beautiful life . . . you will have no need of me."
He continued to moan.
"I can't do without you. I no longer believe in anything. . . . I no longer believe in my life. . . ."
And he flung himself on his knees.
"Stay! Stay with me! . . . I will do what you want . . . everything that you want. . . ."
Annette knew perfectly well that he was making promises that he could not fulfill, but she was touched. Gently she replied:
"No, my friend, you are saying it sincerely, but you couldn't do it, or you would suffer because of it, and I should suffer too; life would be a perpetual conflict. . . ."
When he saw that he could not shake her resolution, he burst into tears at her feet, like a child. Annette was pierced by pity and by love. Her energy melted. She tried to remain firm, but she could not resist these tears. She thought of herself no longer; she thought only of him. She caressed that dear head resting against her legs, and she said tender words to him. She lifted up her big, unhappy boy, she dried his eyes with her handkerchief, she took him by the arm again, she compelled him to walk. He was so prostrated that he surrendered himself, knowing only how to weep. As they went along, the branches of the trees lashed their faces. They went into the woods, without seeing, without knowing where. Annette felt emotion and love rising within her. Supporting Roger, she said:
"Don't cry! . . . my dear! . . . my little one. It tears me to pieces. . . . I can't bear it. . . . Don't cry! . . . I love you. . . . I love you, my poor little Roger. . . ."
And he answered:
"No . . .!" in the midst of his tears.
"Yes! I love you, I love you, a thousand times more than you have ever loved me. . . . What do you want me to do? . . . Oh! I shall do it. . . . Roger, my Roger. . . ."
And now as they were walking, they came out of the woods, and found themselves at the fence of the Rivière property, near the old house. Annette recognized it. . . . She looked at Roger. . . . And suddenly passion invaded her whole body. A wind of fire. A drunkenness of the senses, like the intoxication of an acacia in bloom. . . . She ran towards the door, holding Roger by the hand. They entered the deserted habitation. The blinds were shut. Coming in out of the broad daylight, they were blinded. Roger bumped against the furniture. Without seeing and without thinking, he let himself be guided by the burning hand that led him through the darkness of the ground floor rooms. Annette did not hesitate, her destiny drew her on. . . . Into the room at the back, the room of the two sisters, in which from the past autumn there still floated the perfume of their two bodies, toward the big bed, where they had both slept, she went with him; and, in a passion of pity and of joy,—she gave herself to him.