In the evening Philippe came. She had spent the whole day in terror of this moment, in terror lest she might not have the strength to keep her door shut. For she did not want to face again this pitiless passion. She was convinced of the impossibility of living with this torch fastened to her breast. She must tear it away while the strength still remained to her. Did enough still remain? She loved him, she loved the flame that was consuming her. The next day she would love the shame and the outrage to which she had submitted. She blushed to admit it to herself, but even in her revolt against him that morning there had been an element of sensual delight. She recognized his steps as they came up the stairs. She heard him ring and did not move from her chair. He rang again and knocked. Annette, with her arms hanging and her shoulders flung back, kept repeating to herself, "No! No!" Even had she wished to rise and open the door her breath would have failed her. She heard nothing more. Had he gone away? She was on her feet before she had even thought of it. She slipped with tottering, noiseless steps to the door. A board in the floor creaked. Annette stopped. Some seconds passed. . . . Nothing stirred. But she was aware of Philippe's presence watching behind the door. And Philippe knew that Annette was listening on the other side. There was a heavy silence. They were spying on each other. . . . Philippe's voice, close to the door, said, "Annette, you are there. Open!" Annette, leaning against the wall, felt her heart give way. She did not answer. "I know you are there. Don't try to hide! Annette, open! I must speak to you." He lowered his voice so as not to be heard on the stairway, but a flood of mingled passions was rising in him. He was on the point of shaking the door. "I must see you. . . . Whether you wish it or not, I mean to come in. . . ." Silence. "Annette, I hurt you this morning. Forgive me! . . . I want you. What do you want me to do? Tell me. I will do it. . . ." Silence. Silence. Philippe clenched his fists. He could have strangled her. With his mouth against the door, he growled, "You are mine. You haven't the right to take yourself back. "Think hard!" he said. "If you don't open, it is finished for ever. "Annette, my Annette!" he said. "Coward!" he said furiously. "You are afraid to see me. You are only strong behind a closed door." "Why do you torture me?" said a voice behind the door. Philippe was silent. "My friend," the tired voice went on, "you are killing me." Philippe was touched, but his wounded pride was unwilling to show it. "What do you want?" he said. "Mercy!" she answered. The tone of her voice touched him, but he did not understand. "What do you need?" "Leave me!" she said. His anger sprang up again. "You are driving me away?" "I am begging you for peace. Peace! . . . Leave me alone for a few weeks." "You don't love me any longer?" "I am defending my love." "Against whom? Against what?"