Annette remained alone in a torrent of flame. She walked straight ahead and ten minutes later she found herself at the point from which she had started. Without realizing it, she had made the complete circuit of the iron fence of the Luxembourg Gardens. She came to herself to find that she was all on fire, with the three flaming words engraved on a black background. She made an effort to efface them. Had he uttered them? . . . She saw again the impassive face, she tried to disbelieve it. But the imprint was there, and her resistance weakened and suddenly gave way. Well, it was decreed. . . . She knew it in advance. . . Instead of revolting, as she would have thought of doing an hour before, she felt relieved. The die was cast. . . . She went home with her mind clear, no longer feverish. She had decided. She knew that whatever Philippe wished he would do, and what Philippe wished she wished also. She was free, nothing held her back. . . . The thought of Noémi? She owed her only one thing, the truth. She would not lie. She would take what belonged to her. . . . What belonged to her? The other woman's husband. . . . But blind passion whispered to her that Noémi had stolen him from her. She did nothing to hasten the inevitable. She was sure that Philippe would come. She waited. He came. He had chosen the hour when he knew that she would be alone. As she went to open the door she was seized with terror. But it had to be as it was. She opened the door, revealing nothing of what she felt, unless her paleness did so. He entered the room. They remained standing before each other, a few steps apart, their heads lowered; then he looked at her with his serious eyes. After a silence he said, "I love you, Rivière." And this name of Rivière in his mouth brought up the image of a stream of water. Annette, trembling, motionless, replied, "I don't know whether I love you. I don't think I do, but I know that I am yours." The gleam of a smile passed over Philippe's grave face. "Good," he said. "You don't lie. Neither do I." He took a step towards her. She drew back instinctively and found herself leaning against the wall of the room, defenceless, the palms of her hands pressed out behind her, and her legs gave way beneath her. He had stopped and he looked at her. "Don't be afraid," he said. There was something tender in his hard look. Like a captive who accepts her fate calmly, she said, with a shadow of scorn, "What do you want of me? Is it my body you want? I will not dispute with you over that. Is that the only thing you want?" He took another step and sat down on a low chair at her feet. His cheek brushed her dress. He took Annette's hand, which she limply abandoned to him. He breathed in its fragrance, passed his lips over the fingertips and, bending down, placed it on his head, on his eyes. "This is what I want."