On the evening before his departure they were brought together again by some imperceptible influence. It was one of the Sunday afternoons when everybody was at church. Christophe had gone out too to make his final preparations for the journey. Sabine was sitting in her tiny garden warming herself in the last rays of the sun. Christophe came home: he was in a hurry and his first inclination when he saw her was; to bow and pass on. But something held him back as he was passing: was it Sabine's paleness, or some indefinable feeling: remorse, fear, tenderness?... He stopped, turned to Sabine, and, leaning over the fence, he bade her good-evening. Without replying she held out her hand. Her smile was all kindness,--such kindness as he had never seen in her. Her gesture seemed to say: "Peace between us...." He took her hand over the fence, bent over it, and kissed it. She made no attempt to withdraw it. He longed to go down on his knees and say, "I love you."... They looked at each other in silence. But they offered no explanation. After a moment she removed her hand and turned her head. He turned too to hide his emotion. Then they looked at each other again with untroubled eyes. The sun was setting. Subtle shades of color, violet, orange, and mauve, chased across the cold clear sky. She shivered and drew her shawl closer about her shoulders with a movement that he knew well. He asked: "How are you?" She made a little grimace, as if the question were not worth answering. They went on looking at each other and were happy. It was as though they had lost, and had just found each other again.... At last he broke the silence and said: "I am going away to-morrow." There was alarm in Sabine's eyes. "Going away?" she said. He added quickly: "Oh! only for two or three weeks." "Two or three weeks," she said in dismay. He explained that he was engaged for the concerts, but that when he came back he would not stir all winter. "Winter," she said. "That is a long time off...." "Oh! no. It will soon be here." She saddened and did not look at him. "When shall we meet again?" she asked a moment later. He did not understand the question: he had already answered it. "As soon as I come back: in a fortnight, or three weeks at most." She still looked dismayed. He tried to tease her: "It won't be long for you," he said. "You will sleep." "Yes," said Sabine. She looked down, she tried to smile: but her eyes trembled. "Christophe!..." she said suddenly, turning towards him. There was a note of distress in her voice. She seemed to say: "Stay! Don't go!..." He took her hand, looked at her, did not understand the importance she attached to his fortnight's absence: but he was only waiting for a word from her to say: "I will stay...."