little mouths at the finger-tips! And Pierre, a thinking piano, divined
the meaning of the little waves that sped under the tips, the emotions
that passed through the soul of his darling. He heard her sigh before
she had begun to sigh. Luce had raised herself with her body leaning
forward and, with breathing oppressed, she moaned in a whisper:

"Pierre, oh, Pierre!"

Pierre looked at her troubled.

"Oh, Pierre! What are we, anyway?... What is it they want of us?... What
do we want?... What is this going on within us? These guns, these birds,
this war, this love.... These hands, body, eyes.... Where am I?... and
what am I?"

Pierre, who did not recognize this expression of bewilderment in her,
wanted to take her in his arms. But she repulsed him.

"No! No!"

And hiding her face in her hands she thrust face and hands together into
the grass. Pierre was upset and begged of her:

"Luce!..."

He thrust his head close to that of Luce.

"Luce," he repeated, "what's the matter with you? Is it against me?"

She raised her head.

"No!"

And he saw tears in her eyes.

"Are you in trouble?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Tell me...."

"Ah, I'm ashamed," she said....

"Ashamed? About what?"

"About everything."

She fell silent.

Since the morning she had been haunted by a sorrowful memory, painful
and degrading; her mother, crazed by the poison that crept about in the
promiscuous conditions of the factories made for luxury and for murder,
in those human vats, no longer kept up any restraint upon herself. At
home she had indulged in a scene of furious jealousy with her lover,
without caring if her daughter heard; and Luce had learned that her
mother was with child. For her this was like a blot that extended to
herself, whose entire love, whose love for Pierre was polluted thereby.
That is why when Pierre had approached her she had repulsed him; she was
ashamed of herself and of him.... Ashamed of him? Poor Pierre!...

He remained there, humiliated, and not daring to budge any more. She was
struck with remorse, smiled in the midst of tears and, resting her head
on Pierre's knees, said:

"It is my turn!"

Still disquieted, Pierre smoothed her hair as one pets a cat. He
murmured:

"Luce, what is all this? Tell me...."

"Nothing," she responded. "I've seen sorrowful things."

He had too much respect for her secrets to insist. But Luce went on a
few minutes later:

"Ah, there are moments....