Annette had been completely upset by the sight of Noémi. Ever since she had surrendered herself she had been tormented by remorse. Not that she considered herself at fault for loving the man who loved her: their love was true, it was healthy, it was strong. It had no need of excuse or pretence. No social convention weighed in her mind against it. In the fever of her passion she would not even admit that she had any duty towards Noémi. She was Philippe's real wife. She could not recognize the other one who had not been able to share in his work and his struggles and make him happy. But all this assurance did not alter the fact that someone else paid the price of her own happiness, that she had destroyed the happiness of another. She had tried to believe that Noémi was too frivolous to suffer very much and that she would not find it very hard to give him up. But she knew this was not so, and all she could do was to avoid thinking of Noémi. The self-centredness of the first days of passion had made this possible. But it was no longer possible now that she had met Noémi. Annette had the unfortunate gift of being able to pass outside herself and enter sympathetically, in spite of her own passions, into the passions of others--especially into their sufferings, which a glance revealed to her. . . . She went home almost as much obsessed as Noémi by the anxiety that was devouring her. She could not satisfy herself with words; she could not fortify herself with the rights of love. Noémi, too, was in love, and Noémi was suffering. Has the love that suffers less rights than the love that causes the suffering? It is not a question of rights. One of the two must suffer, she or I! She! Annette's passion left her no choice. . . . But it was far from pleasant. At least this suffering should not be aggravated! It was wrong to prolong it as they did, to let the wound grow worse without applying a firm hand to it, operating upon it, dressing it. To dodge the frank confession, to throw upon Noémi all the misery of discovering her misfortune, was cowardly and cruel. From the very first day Annette had insisted to Philippe, "I am unwilling to conceal myself." Then how had she allowed herself to slip from day to day into this undignified situation? . . . It was her own faint-heartedness all the time. "We must speak," she said to Philippe. But the moment Philippe was willing to speak she prevented him. She was afraid of his brutal frankness. He threw away like a squeezed lemon what he no longer loved. His old bonds annoyed him. "Come," he said, "let's make an end of it." And Annette replied, "No, no, not to-day." She saw the suffering he was going to cause. Gracious heavens! How painful a thing it was to destroy a heart!