Annette had no desire to exchange. Sylvie left her comforted. But at the same time, Annette did not understand herself. She was puzzled. "It's curious!" she said to herself, "I want to give everything. And I want to keep everything! . . ." The next day--it was the eve of her departure--while she was finishing her preparations, when she was beginning to torment herself again, a singular visit added to her anxieties, at the same time clarifying them. Marcel Franck was announced. After a few amiably courteous speeches, he alluded to Annette's engagement, of which Roger had made no mystery. Gracefully he felicitated her, his voice and eyes gently ironic, affectionate. Annette felt very much at ease with him, as with a perspicacious friend to whom one need not say all, from whom one need hide nothing,--for half-words carry understanding. They talked of Roger, whom Marcel envied, smilingly. Annette knew that he spoke the truth, and that he was in love. But it caused them no perturbation. She asked him questions about Roger, whom he knew intimately. Marcel sang his praises; but when she insisted that he speak of him in a somewhat less banal fashion, he jokingly said that it was useless for him to describe Roger, as she knew him quite as well as he. And, saying this, he fixed her with so penetrating a glance that, for an abashed moment, she turned away her eyes. Then, staring in turn at him, she encountered his shrewd smile which showed that they understood each other. They talked for some time of indifferent matters, and then Annette abruptly interrupted, in a preoccupied tone: "Tell me frankly," she said, "do you think I've made a mistake?" "I should never think of you as being mistaken," said he. "No, don't be polite! You are the one person who can tell me the truth." "But you know that my position is peculiarly delicate." "I know it. But I know, too, that it has no effect on the sincerity of your judgment." "Thanks!" said he. She continued: "You think that we are mistaken, Roger and I?" "I think that you are deceiving yourselves." She bowed her head. Then she said: "I think so too." Marcel did not respond. He continued to look at her and smile. "Why are you smiling?" "I was sure that you thought so." Annette, turning her eyes upon him, asked: "Tell me, now, what I seem like to you?" "I should teach you nothing." "You will help me to see more clearly." "You are," Marcel said to her, "an amorous rebel. Perpetually amorous (forgive me!) and perpetually rebellious. You feel the need of giving yourself, and you feel the need of withholding yourself. . . ." (Annette could not conceal a slight start.) "I shock you?" "No, no, quite the contrary! How true it is! Go on! Tell me some more. . . ." "You are," Marcel continued, "an independent who cannot remain alone. It is the law of nature. You feel it more keenly, because you are more alive." "Yes, you understand me! You understand me better than he does. But . . ."