y girls brought up by Sisters always do. She crouched
against the wall, her forehead hidden in the crook of her arm. Her bosom
as pinched as a wasp's went up and down precipitately, and the tears
began to flow.

I stopped gathering up the pieces to console her gently.

"It's not your fault, Marie ... come, don't cry, don't cry."

* * * * *

Marie close by is bending over the sink rubbing it with a brush round
and round always on the same spot. The water slaps on the tile floor and
squirts over my dress. Her movements have something eternal about them
and the appearance of never-ending complaint.

There is nothing to say. Whatever I do, she remains dumb, and the more I
try to reach her, the more she avoids me.

* * * * *

But what does Marie matter? I force myself to get back to my own
affairs. And quickly. _He_ will come in, there will be his gaiety, the
joy flashing in our voices, the day's doings to tell of, and our dear
union only a fortnight old....

Marie is there; nothing can efface her. My irritation against her boils
up, then turns against myself. It is not pity I feel but rather an
intolerable impotence. I hurl myself with all my force against the
eclipsed expression of the Breton girl, and each time it hurts.

Marie....

And I used to think that to love was to feel yourselves alone. On the
contrary, it is to feel yourself to be many.

No, no, love is not the emotion of two people. No, as soon as one feels
love one wants to love _everyone_, win over everyone, shine on everyone,
even on this ignorant head. What sin have I committed that a single
welcome should be denied me? She does not smile; that's my fault. What
is lacking in my love that I should face the vexation of a culpable
failure? My pity for Marie and my love for him are one, because I have
only one heart. And since my heart is repulsed, is it impure?

Marie has resumed her feeble, beaten-down existence. She has set aside
the brush, her blue eyes look beyond the walls, she wipes her wet hands
on her apron--her hostile hands, which are peculiarly hers.

What can one do? But there must be _something_ she believes in, there
must be something one can do to move her, there must be some word to say
to uncover the tomb of her heart.

I stopped. For a moment I left my work....

Where find the ultimate words of love, the final words--simple and
difficult--when one does not even kno