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numb, she seemed to have changed. It was only now when I was certain that I no longer loved her that I began to love her. I felt incapable of manipulation and self-interest, of everything that up till then, and even at that moment, I had believed were vital to love’s existence. Suddenly I felt better. In anyone else, this abrupt change would have opened their eyes, but I didn’t see that I was in love with Marthe. On the contrary, I saw evidence that my love was dead, that its place had been taken by a beautiful friendship. The objectivity of friendship suddenly made me realize just how criminal any other emotion would have been, wronging the man who did love her, to whom she rightly belonged, and who couldn’t see what she was doing.
    And yet something else should have told me what my true feelings were. When I had met Marthe several months before, this so-called love of mine didn’t prevent me from judging her, from thinking that most of the things she found beautiful were ugly, that most of what she said was childish. But now if I didn’t think the same as her, I blamedmyself. After the crudeness of my earlier desires, I was duped by the sweetness of a more profound emotion. I no longer felt able to embark on anything I had resolved to do. I began to respect Marthe, because I had begun to love her.
    I came back every evening; I didn’t think of asking her to show me her bedroom, still less of what Jacques thought of our furniture. I wished for nothing except this everlasting betrothal, our bodies lying barely touching in front of the fire, me not daring to move for fear that a single gesture might be enough to dispel the happiness.
    Yet Marthe, who was savouring the same enchantment, imagined she was alone in doing so. In my happy idleness she saw indifference. Believing that I didn’t love her, she thought I would soon tire of this silent drawing room if she didn’t do something to bind me to her.
    We said nothing. In this I saw a sign of happiness.
    I felt so close to Marthe, so convinced that we were both thinking the same thing at the same time, that the idea of talking to her seemed absurd, like talking to yourself when you are alone. But this silence overwhelmed the poor girl. The wisest thing would have been for me to use crude methods of communication, such as words or gestures, while lamenting the lack of anything more subtle.
    Seeing me sink further into this delightful silence each day, Marthe believed I was becoming more and more bored. So she was prepared to do anything to keep me amused.
    Hair untied, she liked to sleep by the fire. Or rather I thought she was asleep. This slumber was an excuse to put her arms round my neck, and then, waking withtear-moistened eyes, to tell me that she had been having a sad dream. She never wanted to say what it was. I took advantage of this feigned sleep to inhale the scent of her hair, her neck, her burning cheeks, barely brushing them so as not to wake her; caresses which, despite what people believe, are not love’s loose change, but on the contrary are of the very rarest, and of which only passion may avail itself. I believed they were mine by virtue of my friendship. Yet I began to despair that only love gives us rights over a woman. I can easily go without love, I thought, but I can’t not have any rights over Marthe. And in order to have them I had actually chosen love, while believing that I despised it. I desired Marthe without realising.
    While she was asleep like this, her head resting on my arm, I would lean over and look at her face, surrounded by flames. This was playing with fire. Once, as I brought my face closer, although without touching hers, I was like the needle that strays a mere fraction into the forbidden zone and is drawn to the magnet. Is this the fault of the magnet or the needle? This was how I felt my lips touch hers. Her eyes were still closed, but in the obvious way of someone who isn’t asleep. I kissed her, astonished at my