Annette admitted the fact, contritely.
"It's too bad all the same! . . . I wish I were like you! . . . You have all the luck!" she went on.
"Let's exchange! Hand over yours!" said Sylvie.
Annette had no desire to exchange. Sylvie left her comforted.
But at the same time, Annette did not understand herself. She was puzzled.
"It's curious!" she said to herself, "I want to give everything. And I want to keep everything! . . ."
The next day—it was the eve of her departure—while she was finishing her preparations, when she was beginning to torment herself again, a singular visit added to her anxieties, at the same time clarifying them. Marcel Franck was announced.
After a few amiably courteous speeches, he alluded to Annette's engagement, of which Roger had made no mystery. Gracefully he felicitated her, his voice and eyes gently ironic, affectionate. Annette felt very much at ease with him, as with a perspicacious friend to whom one need not say all, from whom one need hide nothing,—for half-words carry understanding. They talked of Roger, whom Marcel envied, smilingly. Annette knew that he spoke the truth, and that he was in love. But it caused them no perturbation. She asked him questions about Roger, whom he knew intimately. Marcel sang his praises; but when she insisted that he speak of him in a somewhat less banal fashion, he jokingly said that it was useless for him to describe Roger, as she knew him quite as well as he. And, saying this, he fixed her with so penetrating a glance that, for an abashed moment, she turned away her eyes. Then, staring in turn at him, she encountered his shrewd smile which showed that they understood each other. They talked for some time of indifferent matters, and then Annette abruptly interrupted, in a preoccupied tone:
"Tell me frankly," she said, "do you think I've made a mistake?"
"I should never think of you as being mistaken," said he.