The gleam of a smile passed over Philippe's grave face. "Good," he said. "You don't lie. Neither do I."
He took a step towards her. She drew back instinctively and found herself leaning against the wall of the room, defenceless, the palms of her hands pressed out behind her, and her legs gave way beneath her. He had stopped and he looked at her. "Don't be afraid," he said. There was something tender in his hard look.
Like a captive who accepts her fate calmly, she said, with a shadow of scorn, "What do you want of me? Is it my body you want? I will not dispute with you over that. Is that the only thing you want?"
He took another step and sat down on a low chair at her feet. His cheek brushed her dress. He took Annette's hand, which she limply abandoned to him. He breathed in its fragrance, passed his lips over the fingertips and, bending down, placed it on his head, on his eyes. "This is what I want."
Under her fingers, Annette felt the rough, bushy hair, the swelling of the forehead and the beating temples. This imperious man was placing himself under her protection. She leaned towards him and he raised his face. It was their first kiss.
His arms encircled Annette, who had dropped on her knees beside him and no longer resisted, as if she had no breath left, and Philippe, violent as he was, had no thought of taking advantage of his victory. "I want everything," he said, "all of you, mistress, friend, companion—my woman altogether."
Annette extricated herself. Noémi's image had risen before her. A moment before it had been she who had driven her from her consciousness. But that Philippe should do the same thing wounded her in a way, wounded her in that instinctive freemasonry of women who, even as enemies, find themselves leagued against the aggressiveness of man—one body in common.
"You cannot," said Annette. "You belong to another."
He shrugged his shoulders. "There's nothing of me that she possesses."
"She has your name and your faith."