And this was not all. Now that she had to leave her circle, Annette, who, for a long time, had fearlessly considered what was awaiting her, did not want to do so. Let him who disapproves of the illogical condemn her! Man—woman still less—is not all of a piece, especially at those transitional ages when the instincts of revolt and rebirth are mingled with the conservative habits that paralyze them. One cannot at a stroke liberate oneself from the prejudices of one's environment and the needs one has acquired. Even the freest souls cannot do so. One has regrets, doubts, one wants to lose nothing, one wants to have everything. Annette, in her sincerity, with her need of love, with her need of being free, with her desire not to be false, was still anxious not to sacrifice her acquired advantages. She was willing to withdraw from her social set; she could not endure being rejected by it; she could not accept the idea of forfeiting it. And her youthful pride, which life had not yet forced to lower its crest, refused to seek asylum in another environment that was socially more humble, even if she respected it more. This, in the eyes of the world, would have been to admit that she was conquered. It was better to be isolated than déclassée.
Trifling as these considerations were, they were not unreasonable. In the struggle between the conventions of a class and one of its revolting members who braves them, the class, which forms a solid block against the imprudent soul as it casts him forth, drives him elsewhere and watches for his weaknesses in order to justify its interdiction.
In the world of Nature as soon as a symptom of weakness appears, and some creature reveals itself as an object of prey, spider-webs are stretched about it. There is nothing unfair about this, nothing sinister. It is merely the natural law. Nature is always hunting. Everyone in turn is hunter or hunted. Annette was the hunted.
The hunters made their appearance. All unsuspecting, Annette received a call from her friend Marcel Franck.
She was alone in the house. The baby had gone out for his daily airing; her aunt was with him. Annette, who was rather tired, was resting in her room. She was not expecting to see anyone, but when Marcel's card was brought to her she gladly sent word for him to come in. She was grateful to him for having taken her part at Lucile's. Not that he had compromised himself. But she had not expected that.
Stretched out in her chaise longue, she received him unceremoniously as an old friend. She was still in her morning négligé. Since she had become a mother, she had lost her devotion to order and the meticulous correctness that Sylvie had teased her about. Marcel was the last person to mind this. He found her prettier than ever, with a fresh, attractive plumpness, a gentle languor, a dewy look in her eyes which were softened with happiness. Annette talked quite without reserve; she was pleased to see once more the discerning confidant of her old hesitations. She liked his intelligence, his intellectual tact; he inspired confidence in her. Franck revealed all his old cordiality and fine comprehension, but from the beginning of the conversation she was struck by the suggestion of a new familiarity in his manner.
They recalled their last meeting before Annette's unfortunate visit at the Brissots' in Burgundy, and Annette agreed that Marcel had seen all too clearly what was going to happen. She was anxious to speak of the impossibility of her marriage to Roger, but a blush spread over her face as it occurred to her that Marcel looked at the whole matter in quite a different way and considered it a joke. Marcel remarked mischievously, "You saw it as well as I." And he laughed at the turn the adventure had taken.
He had the air of being a sort of accomplice. Annette was confused, and she concealed her feeling with a touch of irony. Marcel went a step further: "You saw it much better than I did. We men are absurd enough to believe that we can teach women out of our own precious wisdom, and we get caught instead when, with their insidious voices, their big, beautiful eyes, they anxiously ask us what they ought to do. They know very well. They flatter our folly. We love to teach, but they can give us cards and spades. When I foretold that you would not be caught in the Brissots' net, I never suspected that you would escape from its meshes in such a masterly way. It was a wonderful stroke. Well done! What can't you do when you set your mind on it! I compliment you on your courage." Annette listened to this with a feeling of embarrassment. How strange it was! She had undertaken to vindicate her right to behave as she had done; the other day, at Lucile's, she had been ready to affirm it against the whole universe. But it made her uncomfortable to hear herself praised in this tone by Marcel. Her modesty and her dignity were hurt. "Don't compliment me," she said. "I have less courage than you think. I didn't desire in advance what has happened. I never thought of it."
Then, seized with a scruple and too proud to lie, she continued, "I am mistaken. Yes, I did think of it. But only to fear it, not to desire it. And that is what remains incomprehensible to me. How could I have let it happen, the thing I feared, that I didn't want?"
"Quite natural," said Marcel. "What we fear hypnotizes us. After all, it doesn't follow that because we fear a thing we don't desire it. But everyone does not dare to do what he is afraid to do. You did dare. You dared to make a mistake. One has to make mistakes in life. We learn through our mistakes, and we must learn. Only, while you were daring, I do think, my friend, that you might have taken precautions. Your partner seems to me very much to blame for having left you with this burden to bear."