e shops some trifle that would
please.

The painter had already been through this phase, and she had seen him
come in many times with that same smile, that same gesture, a little
packet in his hand. That habit had ceased after awhile, and now it had
begun again. For whom? She had no matter of doubt. It was not for her!

He appeared fatigued and thin. She concluded that he was suffering. She
compared his entrances, his manner, his bearing with the attitude of the
Marquis, who was also beginning to be attracted by Annette's grace. It
was not at all the same thing: Monsieur de Farandal admired her, Olivier
Bertin loved! She believed this at least during her hours of torture;
then, in quieter moments she still hoped that she had deceived herself.

Oh, often she could hardly restrain herself from questioning him when
she was alone with him, praying, entreating him to speak, to confess
all, to hide nothing! She preferred to know and to weep under certainty
than to suffer thus under doubt, not able to read that closed heart,
wherein she felt another love was growing.

That heart, which she prized more highly than her life, over which she
had watched, and which she had warmed and animated with her love for
twelve years, of which she had believed herself sure, which she had
hoped was definitely hers, conquered, submissive, passionately devoted
for the rest of their lives, behold! now that heart was escaping her by
an inconceivable, horrible, and monstrous fatality! Yes, it had suddenly
closed itself, upon a secret. She could no longer penetrate it by
a familiar word, or hide therein her own affection as in a faithful
retreat open for herself alone. What is the use of loving, of giving
oneself without reserve, if suddenly he to whom one has offered her
whole being, her entire existence, all, everything she had in the world,
is to escape thus because another face has pleased him, transforming him
in a few days almost into a stranger?

A stranger! He, Olivier? He spoke to her, as always, with the same
words, the same voice, the same tone. And yet there was something
between them, something inexplicable, intangible, invincible, almost
nothing--that almost nothing that causes a sail to float away when the
wind turns.

He was drifting, in fact, drifting away from her a little more each day,
by all the glances he cast upon Annette. He himself did not attempt
to see clearly into the depths of his heart. He felt, indeed, that
ferm