rring those
bitter and poetic ideas of a tender but pessimistic philosophy, which is
a frequent subject of conversation between men and women whom life has
wounded a little, and whose hearts mingle as they sympathize with each
other's grief.

Annette, who was not ripe for such thoughts, left them frequently to
gather wild flowers beside the road.

But Olivier, desiring to keep her near him, nervous at seeing her
continually darting away, never removed his eyes from her. He was
irritated that she should show more interest in the colors of the
plants than in the words he spoke. He experienced an inexpressible
dissatisfaction at not being able to charm her, to dominate her, as he
had captivated her mother; and he felt a desire to hold out his hand
and seize her, hold her, forbid her to go away. He felt that she was too
alert, too young, too indifferent, too free--free as a bird, or like
a little dog that will not come back, will not obey, which has
independence in its veins, that sweet instinct of liberty which neither
voice nor whip has yet vanquished.

In order to attract her he talked of gayer things, and at times he
questioned her, trying to awaken her feminine curiosity so that she
would listen; but one would think that the capricious wind of heaven
was blowing through Annette's head that day, as it blew across the
undulating grain, carrying away and dispersing her attention into space,
for she hardly uttered even the commonplace replies expected of her,
between her short digressions, and made them with an absent air, then
returned to her flowers. Finally he became exasperated, filled with a
childish impatience, and as she ran up to beg her mother to carry her
first bouquet so that she could gather another, he caught her by the
elbow and pressed her arm, so that she could not escape again. She
struggled, laughing, pulling with all her strength to get away from
him; then, moved by masculine instinct, he tried gentler means, and, not
being able to win her attention he tried to purchase it by tempting her
coquetry.

"Tell me," said he, "what flower you prefer, and I will have a brooch
made of it for you."

She hesitated, surprised.

"What, a brooch?"

"In stones of the same color; in rubies if it is the poppy; in sapphires
if it is the cornflower, with a little leaf in emeralds."

Annette's face lighted up with that affectionate joy with which promises
and presents animate a woman's countenance.

"The cornfl