I force myself to think of nothing. That would be best. I come to grief over it, and my thoughts are torture. Why am I going there? Out of cowardice? Or else is it a remnant of hope? No! We'll dismiss that idea! Rather, I think, in order to prove to myself that I am not afraid to suffer. I stiffen myself. I will be correct and cold. Cold, poor wretch! Just now my tears welled up at the sight of the sunlit road where there might some day have gambolled lovely children, born to us. I have got out, and have slowly traversed the deserted village, and rounded the tall pine-wood. My footsteps sink into the earth--an inconvenience shared by everyone. My jointed leg flexes at the difficulties in the ground, and does not call attention to my drawback. I just seem tired by my walk. I have forbidden myself to think, to procrastinate, or to hesitate, or I should not have got as far as this threshold. Just as well, since I am embarked on this fantastic adventure. No backing out of it! For a soldier! There it is. I recognise the gates, overhung with ivy, from the description they gave me. Here it is! I ring, with wonderful, unexpected calmness. My heart has stopped beating quickly, since my fate is sealed. The sound of footsteps. Is it she? No, the maid coming to open the gate to me. Was I expected as early as this? A short and fairly steep pathway brings us to the flight of steps leading up to the villa. No one at the windows--luckily! As a matter of fact, my careless carriage cloaks my lameness. I have been taken into the drawing-room, and the maid has gone to tell--A prettily furnished room, unobtrusively luxurious, and smacking of the old _bourgeoisie_, of matured and refined taste. Old furniture--flowers in modern vases. I go up to a table with photographs standing on it. Here is, or, rather, are hers. This one dates back to two years ago. She seems a child, with her hair down her back Thus it was that she entered upon life. I am struck by a pastel on the wall--a gracious portrait of a young woman. That resemblance--Her mother, no doubt; her mother, who had died when she was twenty-four. A door opens. It is Madame Landry, as slim and sprightly as ever, in her dark gown, but she has a tired expression, it is true. Is she still an invalid? She denies it, in a few disconnected sentences, and seems even more perturbed than I am. "Jeannine is just coming down," she says. I ask: "How is she? Quite fit?" "Very." Then, recovering herself: "I've been annoyed--with her." But here is Jeannine herself. I admire my self-control, for I get up and go towards her. There is nothing constrained in my gait; I hardly drag my leg. Dazzled, and yet at the same time clear-sighted, I look at her with a prejudiced eye. I do not think her as lovely as she was.