"But it is he whom you love." There was no bitterness in the tone. Very friendlily they stared at each other, amused at the strangeness of human nature. "It is not easy to live," said Annette, "to live in pairs." "Why, yes, it would be easy enough, if men hadn't spent their time for centuries ingeniously complicating life by reciprocal restraints. The only thing to do is to throw them off. But naturally our excellent Roger, like any good old Frenchman, doesn't conceive of the idea. They think that they are lost if they no longer feel themselves weighed down by the restraints of the past. '_Where there is no restraint, there is no pleasure_ . . .' especially when in being restrained one restrains one's neighbor." "What is your conception of marriage, then?" "As an intelligent association of interests and pleasures. Life is a vine that we exploit in common; together we cultivate it and gather the grapes. But we are not compelled always to drink our wine together, always tête-à-tête. There is a mutual complaisance that demands from and gives to the other the clusters of pleasure, of which each disposes, and which allows one discreetly to finish his harvesting elsewhere. "What you mean," asked Annette, "is the liberty of adultery?" "The old obsolete word! What I mean," answered Marcel, "is the liberty of love, the most essential of all liberties." "That's the thing of least importance to me," said Annette. "For me marriage is not a public square in which one gives oneself to every passer-by. I give myself to one alone. The day on which I ceased to love and loved another, I should separate from the first; I should not divide myself between them, and I could not bear the division." Marcel made an ironic gesture that seemed to say: "What does it matter? . . ." "So you see, my friend," Annette went on, "in the last analysis, I am still further away from you than from Roger." "So you too," demanded Marcel, "belong to the good old school: 'Let us hamper one another'?" "The one grandeur of marriage," said Annette, "is monogamous love, the fidelity of two hearts. If that is lost, what remains outside of a few practical advantages?" "They are not negligible," said Marcel. "They are not enough," replied Annette, "to compensate for the sacrifices." "If that's your opinion, what are you complaining about? You rivet the bars from which one would deliver you." "The liberty that I want," said Annette, "is not that of the heart. I feel that I am strong enough to keep that intact for the one to whom I give it." "Are you so sure of that?" Marcel demanded tranquilly. Annette was not so sure of it! She too was doubtful. It was her mother's daughter who was speaking at this moment, it was not the whole Annette. But she did not wish to admit it, especially to Marcel, and in an argument. She said: "I wish it."