"Will power in such matters! . . ." exclaimed Marcel, with his shrewd smile. ". . . It is as though one decreed that a red fire should be a green fire. Love is a lighthouse of changing fires." But Annette obstinately said: "Not for me! . . . I don't want it to be!" She was perfectly aware, and with the same conviction, of the need of change and of the need of permanence, those two passionate instincts of all vigorous lives. But, turn and turn about, whichever one of these two felt itself threatened, revolted. Marcel, being well acquainted with the proud and obstinate girl, bowed politely. Annette, who judged herself as accurately as he judged her, said a little shamefacedly: "After all, I shouldn't like . . ." And, with this concession made to the spirit of truth, she continued more firmly, now feeling herself to be on ground of which she was sure: "But I should like, in exchange for the gift of mutual affection, that each should preserve the right to live according to his own soul, to walk in his own way, to seek his own truth, to secure, if need be, his own field of activity,--to carry out, in a word, the proper law of his own spiritual life, and not sacrifice himself to the law of another, even the dearest person of all: for no one has the right to immolate another's soul, or his own for the sake of another. It is a crime." "That's all very fine, my dear friend," said Marcel, "but for me, you know, the soul is a little beyond my depth. Perhaps it may mean more to Roger. But I am afraid that in that case he will not understand it in the same fashion. I can't quite see the Brissots, in their family circle, conceiving the possibility of any spiritual law save that of the political and private fortunes of the Brissots." "By the way," said Annette, smiling, "to-morrow I'm going to their place in Burgundy to spend two or three weeks." "Well," remarked Marcel, "that will be a case of confronting their idealism with your own. For they are great idealists, they too! After all, perhaps I am mistaken. At bottom you are admirably made to get along together." "Don't dare me!" said Annette. "Perhaps I shall come back an accomplished Brissot." "Dear me! That wouldn't be so cheerful! . . . No, no, I beg of you! . . . Brissot, or not Brissot, preserve us Annette!" "Alas! I should like to lose her, but I can't, I'm afraid," Annette replied. He said good-bye, kissing her hand. "It's a pity, all the same! . . ."