In a cold tone, colder for the fact that she was burning inside, she offered Sylvie her friendship, her assistance. . . . Sylvie, negligently, with a malicious little smile, listened, made no reply. . . . Annette, mortified, ill hiding her piqued pride and incipient passion, rose abruptly. They exchanged a pleasant, commonplace good-bye. And, with sorrow and anger in her heart, Annette went out.
But as she reached the end of the tiled hall, and was already descending the first step of the stairs, Sylvie came running towards her, in her little Turkish slippers, one of which she lost on the way, and from behind she slipped her arms around Annette's neck. Annette turned, crying out with emotion. She hugged Sylvie in a burst of passion; and Sylvie cried out too, but with laughter at the violence of the embrace. Their mouths met ardently. Loving words. Affectionate murmurs. Thanks, promises that they would see each other soon. . . .
They drew apart. Annette, laughing with happiness, found that without realizing it she had descended to the bottom of the staircase. From above she heard a gamin's whistle, as though calling a dog, and Sylvie's voice whispering:
"Annette!"
She raised her head and saw high above her in a patch of light Sylvie's laughing face bending down.
"Catch!"
And Annette received full in her face a rain of drops and the wet lilac that Sylvie had thrown down to her, at the same time throwing kisses with both hands. . . .
Sylvie vanished. Annette, with lifted head, continued to look for her when she was no longer there. And, clasping the branch of wet flowers in her arms, she kissed the lilac.
[V]
Despite the distance, and although certain streets were not very safe at this belated hour, Annette returned home on foot. She could easily have danced. When she finally reached the house, happy and troubled, she did not retire until she had placed the flowers in a vase beside her bed. And then she got up again to take them out and put them in her water jug, as they had been at Sylvie's. In bed again, she kept her lamp lighted, for she did not wish to take leave of this day. But suddenly, three hours later, she awakened in the middle of the night. The flowers were really there; it had not been a dream, she had seen Sylvie. . . . She fell asleep again, upon the breast of that dear image.