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."