In one day all the time gone by has reestablished itself.

I am become again what I was.

Except that I am not so strong or so calm as before, it is as though nothing had happened.
But truth is more simple than before.
I inquire of Marie after this one or the other and question her.
Marie says to me: "You're always saying Why ?--like a child." All the same I do not talk much.

Marie is assiduous; obviously she is afraid of my silence.

Once, when I was sitting opposite her and had said nothing for a long time, she suddenly hid her face in her hands, and in her turn she asked me, through her sobs: "Why are you like that ?" I hesitate.
"It seems to me," I say at last, by way of answer, "that I am seeing things as they are." "My poor boy!" Marie says, and she goes on crying.
I am touched by this obscure trouble.