There was much tenderness in this smile and not a little French irony. Touched as she was at the thought of them, Annette perceived, curiously enough, the ridiculous side of all these torments, her own and those of others . . . that pitiful fever of desire and waiting! For what was she waiting? An end of love, for herself. For the others, too, in their turn! She saw the others, her son, with his burning hands, quivering to grasp the uncertain future; Philippe, dissatisfied with the commonplace food that society offered his devouring hunger; Sylvie, trying to forget and looking to the future that would fill the gaping emptiness of her heart; the multitude of ordinary people yawning over the boredom of their life; and youth, restless youth, wandering and waiting. . . . For what was it waiting? Towards what were its hands stretched out? Liberated from herself, she looked at all these burden-bearers, saw that herd, that mob in the streets, hastening, running, each ignoring every one else, each as if pursued by the sheep-dogs, and, under the apparent disorder, the sovereign rhythm--all believing they directed themselves, all directed. . . . Towards what? Whither was he leading them, the invisible shepherd? . . . The good shepherd? . . . No! Beyond good and evil. . . . She gave her lessons as usual, patient and attentive, listening kindly, explaining clearly, making no mistakes. Even as she spoke, the dream continued to envelop her. Whoever has formed the habit finds it easy to live two lives at a time, one on a level with the ground, with other men, the other in the depths of the dream that is bathed by the inner sun. One neglects neither of them. One reads them both with a glance as a musician's eye reads a score. Life is a symphony: each moment of life sings in several parts. The reverberation of this warm harmony brought the color to Annette's face. Her pupils to-day were astonished at her youthful air, and they conceived for her one of those strong attachments which the young feel for their elders, the Heralds of life, and which they dare not confess. Annette knew nothing of the wake of love that her passing left that day in the hearts of those who were near her. She came home towards evening in the same aerial state. With her light heart, she felt as if she were moving on air. She could not have explained it. The powerful enigma of a woman enveloped in her own radiance, in a joy without apparent reason, even in the face of reason! Everything that surrounds her, the whole external world is, at these moments, only a theme for the free improvisations of the passionate fantasy of her dreams.