A long general hall, uncarpeted, tiled. At right and left, two doors ajar: voices called from one lodging to the other. Through the door on the left a reflection from the setting sun fell upon the red tiles. That was where Sylvie lived.
Annette knocked. Some one called out, "Come in!" without ceasing to chatter. Annette pushed open the door; the light from the golden heavens struck her full in the face. She saw a young girl, half-dressed, in a skirt, with bare shoulders, and bare feet thrust into red slippers, walking back and forth with her supple, plump back turned towards her. She was looking for something on her toilet table, talking to herself, and powdering her nose with a puff.
"Well now! What is it?" she demanded in a tone that was nasal because of the pins thrust in one corner of her mouth.
Then suddenly, distracted by a lilac branch that was soaking in her water jug, she plunged her nose into it with a grunt of pleasure. Lifting her head, and looking into the mirror with her laughing eyes, she caught sight of Annette behind her, hesitating on the threshold, aureoled in sunlight. "Oh!" she exclaimed, turned around with bare arms lifted above her head, quickly thrust the pins back into her rearranged hair, came forward with hands outstretched, and then suddenly withdrew them, making a gesture of welcome that was cordial but reserved. Annette entered, vainly trying to speak. Sylvie was silent too. She offered her visitor a chair, and slipping into a well-worn, blue-striped dressing-gown, she sat down on the bed opposite her. They looked at each other, and each waited for the other to begin.
How different they were! Each studied the other with sharp, precise, unindulgent eyes which asked: "Who are you?"
Sylvie saw Annette, big, fresh, large of face, her nose a little snubbed, her forehead like that of a young heifer beneath a mass of twisted golden brown hair, with very thick eyebrows, large clear blue eyes that protruded a trifle, and that grew strangely hard at times when waves of emotion swept up from her heart; her mouth was large and her lips firm, with a light down at the corners, and habitually closed in a defensive, watchful, determined pout,—but when they opened they were illumined by a timid, radiant and delightful smile which transformed her whole countenance; her chin, like her cheeks, was full but not fat, both solidly cut; nape, neck and hands were the color of dark honey; beneath her beautiful, firm skin flowed pure blood. A little heavy of figure, her bust a trifle square, she had breasts that were large and full: Sylvie's practised eye felt them under the dress, lingering longest on the fine shoulders, so perfectly proportioned that they formed, with the white, round column of her neck, Annette's greatest physical charm. She knew how to dress, she was turned out with care; an excessive, an over-studied care in Sylvie's opinion: hair well done, not a ringlet out of place, not a hook and eye at fault, everything in order. Sylvie was asking herself: "And is she the same inside?"
Annette saw Sylvie, almost as tall as herself (perhaps just as tall) but thin, slender of figure, with a head that was small for her body, now half-naked under her peignor, and a throat that was slight but plump, while her arms too were plump: balancing herself on her little rump, she sat with her hands clasped over her round knees. Round too were her forehead and her chin; her little nose turned up; her light brown hair grew low on the temples and curled over the cheeks, and little wandering hairs appeared on the nape and the white, very white and slender, neck. A hot-house plant. The two profiles of her face were asymmetrical: the right-hand one was languorous, sentimental,—a sleeping cat; the left-hand one, malicious, watchful,—a biting cat. When she spoke, her upper lip drew back over laughing teeth. And Annette was thinking: "Beware of her bite!"
How different they were! . . . And yet at the first glance both had recognized the expression, the clear eyes, the forehead, the wrinkle at the corner of the mouth,—the father. . . .
Annette, frightened and stiff, took her courage in her hands and, in a pale voice that was chilled by excess of emotion, she told who she was, her name. Sylvie let her speak without ceasing to stare at her; then, calmly, with a slightly cruel smile of her curled upper lip, she said: "I knew it."
Annette started.