urself--but without distinguishing it from ourselves. Who can say what
love is? Love is I, it is he. On the day when I shall love, love will be
changed and will resemble me and will no longer be that love of which
one speaks in general. It will be I--I simply stirred up.

When we were silent under the influence of the slack atmosphere of the
room, we two souls at the same pitch, my gaze plunged in the creamy
muslin of the curtains, I knew he found me beautiful. I realized I was
waiting for him to say so. I would have hugged his words, I should have
liked to see them come from his lips without covetousness, I should have
wanted them to be nothing but my craving for beauty....

I believe I closed my eyes. A loving alliance took place between my
visible body and my hidden being. I was no longer divided against
myself. Thanks to him....

How long did we remain that way, grave and smiling, opposite each other?
I cannot tell exactly....

The flowers on the table with widespread petals held out their black
hearts to us. A gentle pearl-gray breeze was stirring the curtains.

He is gone, is he? His going made no break or clash and left no sense of
finality. I had scarcely felt him take my hand when he released it, the
doorway was empty. I returned to the empty armchair in the room ennobled
by both his absence and his presence, my arms weighed down and my
spirits in eclipse....

* * * * *

Who is speaking? Who is there?

Mme. Noel, the live puppet, is sticking her painted head in at the door;
the thread of light holds it as in a snare. She _here_ at this
moment!... One impatient start and I go over to her. "My compliments, a
handsome fellow!" This time it is too much. "Such looks, such eyes! Good
for you!" Letting out a chain of cackles, the little floury face
retreats under cover, the streak of light narrows, gilds the frame of
the door, and dissolves in the shadow.

* * * * *

Alone.... But am I still alone?

The cold window-pane refreshes my forehead. The street lounges lazily in
its Sunday repose, and the room into which I turn back embraces a
fateful, solemn evening; its ripe perfume rises like incense, the
flower-decked mantelpiece resembles an altar beneath a cluster of
tapers.

I no longer know ... I no longer know ...

VIII

He is often late. I have noticed that I am almost invariably the one to
have to wait. Work in his office ends at the