ommitted a crime and a glorious feat.

"Two o'clock," I had called to him.

I was up early in the morning, and by ten minutes to two everything was
ready. The flowers and foliage bought at market had had time to freshen
up and expand. The petals of the anemones, shut up like a tight case in
the morning, were spreading in a crown around the big pompoms of black
pistils. The bed was successfully disguised by a draped covering, and my
room, all polished and groomed, shone like a jewel. It looked really
homelike. At the last moment I put on my dress of white woollen stuff,
the one with the cord girdle and elbow sleeves. The hardest task was the
arranging of my hair. Not to look untidy with a fiery mop of a head, yet
to be a little beautiful, oh joy, beautiful, to please him. I set-to
furiously on the image in the looking-glass.

Five minutes to two. Three little raps, three moments of insensibility,
three echoes.

My hand trembled slightly as I held it out to him, and when his gaze
travelled over me, an amazing sense of shame seized and chilled me. I
promptly hid my arms in my scarf. But my terror was quickly dissipated.
He conveyed the lofty ease of people of perfect simplicity. He was there
with all his manly gravity, all his attention, and his good smile
imparting a sense of security. I felt his calm transfuse itself into me.

We sat down. I no longer know how we began or by what avenue of
conversation he came to tell me of his crushed childhood, his needy
youth, his mother, his studies, the present career he had chosen for
himself.... I listened; I followed him from year to year, from picture
to picture, from place to place; and within me a larger and larger void
was filling up with hopes and thoughts that seemed to have dwelt there
always.

What a flood of sweetness, what warmth and space, and what.... I hardly
breathed....

"Your turn...."

He was sitting on my little chair near the window with his back partly
to the light. From the depths of the armchair, the white fleece of my
scarf looping at my feet, I saw the quality of his gaze.

My story was not so straight and consecutive. Here and there I lost my
way and had to stop, with nothing more to say. Nevertheless, insight
into me kindled under his eyes, we advanced together as happy and at as
even a pace as if we were holding each other's hands; and my flimsy past
assumed a little weight.

We spoke of love--you always speak of love when you talk about
yo