1

"it looks like snowing," says rose.

the words falling upon an absolute silence distract me from my work.

it is a dull, drab winter's day. there is no colour, no light in the sky that shows through the muslin blinds. on the branches of the bare trees, a few dead leaves, which the wind has left behind, shiver miserably at some passing gust. there is just enough noise for us to enjoy the peace that enfolds the house. from time to time, carriage-wheels roll by and the crack of a whip cuts into our silence; then the dog wakes, sits up, looks questioningly at me and quietly puts his nose back between his paws and begins to snore again. rose is sitting opposite him, on the other side of the fire-place. she is holding a book in her hands without reading it. her beautiful eyes are staring dreamily at the fitful flames.

i rose and went upstairs to fetch a volume which

i wanted. both of them, the dog and she, accompanied me, yawning and stretching themselves as they went. they stood beside the book-case, like two witnesses, equally useless and equally indispensable, and watched me searching. i shivered in the cold room. rose gave a little cough; and the dog tried to curl himself up in the folds of my skirt.

then we all three went down again; and, when i had gone back to my place, they docilely resumed theirs on either side of the chimney.

the dog, before settling down, turned several times on his cushion, arching his back, with his tail between his legs and his critical nose quivering with satisfaction. rose also has seen that her armchair is as comfortable as it can be made. now, lying back luxuriously, with her elbows on the rests and her head on a soft cushion, she is evidently not much troubled at the thought of a long day indoors.

2

in the two months since rose left sainte-colombe, i have drilled her into an intermittent attempt at style which is the utmost that she will ever achieve,

i fear; for her will, unhappily, is incapable of sustained effort. when she has to hold herself upright for several hours at a time, i see her gradually stooping as though invisible forces were dragging her down.

certainly, it is no longer the rose of sainte-colombe who is here beside me. how much of her remains? her general appearance is transformed by her clothes and the way in which she wears her hair; her voice and gestures are softer; but all this minute and complex change is but the subtle effect of events, the disconcerting effect of an influence that has laid itself upon her nature without altering it in any way. and this is what really causes my uneasiness. she is changed, but she has not changed.

i take her with me wherever i have to go. she accompanies me on my walks and drives, in my shopping, to the play. men consider her beautiful, but her indifference keeps love at a distance: love, the passion in which i placed, in which i still place the hopes that remain to me.

3

as for rose herself, she is always pleased, without being enthusiastic, and never expresses a wish or a desire.

i sometimes laugh and say:

"you have a weatherproof soul; and your common sense is as starched as your sunday cap used to be!"

but at heart she saddens me. to keep my interest in her alive, i find myself wishing that she had some glaring fault. and at the same time i am angry with myself for not appreciating the exclusiveness of her affection better. i am actually beginning to think that this extravagant sentiment is fatal to her. i look upon it in her heart as i look upon the great tree in my garden, which interferes with the growth of everything around it: fond as i am of that tree, i consider it something of an enemy.