She had tried in van to convince herself that Philippe's caprice would pass. But, far from passing, the all too evident symptoms of his disaffection became even more marked: a cold inattention to what she said and how she looked, to the very presence of his little wife, at times a complete indifference--even when Noémi tried to force the fact of her existence upon him, a bored weariness, an unconcealed disgust that avoided any importunate contact. . . . She quivered with rage and slighted love! . . . She could not hide from herself any longer the seriousness of this misfortune. She became frantic. But she was careful always to force herself not to show it. . . . Always, always to be gay, sure of herself and of him, always to keep offering him the bait which he would not even look at! She was eating her heart out. . . . And against this intangible enemy there rose within her a furious hatred. Unable as she was to lay hold of her, she could have beaten her own head against the wall. She had watched everyone, everyone, in vain--everyone but Annette. Annette was the last person she would have thought of. And it was Annette who betrayed herself. She was walking along the street when, twenty steps away, she saw Noémi coming towards her. Noémi did not see her. She was walking with her eyes empty, her head bent; her pretty face was pale and looked older and careworn. She was not conscious of herself at this, moment or of anything about her; for days she had been like a monomaniac who, with a dejected rage, turns the grindstone of a fixed idea. Annette was shocked at the sight of her. She might have passed close beside her without being noticed, or have retraced her steps, but in her clumsy haste she left the sidewalk and crossed the street. This movement broke the continuous flow of the passing people and mechanically attracted Noémi's attention. She recognized Annette, who was trying to avoid her, and, following her with her eyes, she saw Annette furtively glance at her from the other side of the street and then turn her head away. It was like a blinding light. . . . She was the woman! She stopped with her heart in her mouth, her nails driven into the palms of her hands, clenching her teeth, bristling like a cat with its back arched; there was murder in her eyes. The look of a passer-by reminded her that she was in a world where people live by falsehood, the world which, for once, she had left. She returned to it. But ten steps farther on she laughed cruelly. She had caught her. . . . XLIII