"What would she do with it? She doesn't want to know anything about it. She ignores all truth, everything that is painful in life."
Annette looked at Philippe, and he read in her eyes the question she withheld.
"You are thinking, 'Why did he marry her, then?' The woman lies, yes, I know it. Her whole body is a lie, from the roots of her hair to the tips of her nails. Well, the odd thing is that I took her for that very reason. It is almost the reason why I love her. When falsehood is as perfect an art as that it deserves a good theatre. . . . (Don't we know that the theatre, that almost all art, lies, except in the case of a few freaks who bewilder their confrères; then the confrères say that they are not artists, that they ruin the trade.) If the world is a lie, at least we have the right to demand that the lie shall be pleasant. Everything considered, I prefer for my satisfaction and my society those who lie prettily. They don't take me in. I see through them. Noémi's grace is as artificial as her sentiments. But she makes a success of it. She does me credit. I enjoy it when I come home in the evening with my eyes befouled by the cutting up of spoiled meat. She is like laughing water. I bathe in it. Let her lie! It is of no importance. If she spoke the truth she would have nothing to say."
"You are hard. She loves you."
"No doubt, and I love her too."
"If you love her, why do you need me?"
"I love her in her own way."
"That's a great deal."
"A great deal for her, perhaps. It's not much for me."
"But can I give you what she gives you?"