I
I had been counting the days until I could call the day I was yearning for by its name, a name new to me every morning. To have said good-bye for two months, to have lived apart so long and almost without news, and now finally to be able to caress the ardent moment which gives each back to the other, if only for a short space; to caress it as you hold your hands up to the fire. By a great effort I succeeded in remaining calm.
I had put my house in order, filled my vases with flowers, and made myself beautiful. My velvet gown dulled the light, so that by contrast I seemed to have a halo round my bared neck.
The hour drew near. The clock struck. But, no, the clock must be fast.... The next moments stabbed the silence, dragging on leaden feet. I went to the window. On turning back into the room, I was delighted to discover a few things to do. The little round corner table was standing tipped, there were too many leaves in the bouquet ... and this wisp of hair straggling down my cheek. No, he was not coming. Waiting is a death died over and over again.
At last....
To think I could have breathed till now! You! He moved toward me rather timidly, almost as if he were a stranger. It occurred to me that he was not familiar with my home. A panic seized me: he might not like it.
But in one bound I was close to him, my head on his shoulder and his arms around me. I forgot everything. "I am so happy, so happy." We found ourselves in my little room, where the flowers piercing the twilight opened wide their mock hearts....
But how he had changed; his face had grown thinner.... Why that overcast brow, that look of depression, that manner of not being at home?... What was the matter with him?... What was the matter with him?
Though there had been no time for conversation, and we had merely exchanged awkward, random questions, I felt suddenly that our hearts had ceased to beat in unison.
He should speak. I must know! Nothing is worse than not knowing....