I believe I loved him from that moment on.) I am afraid that now his patients are merely cases

Knowing concerns him more than healing. And even in his relations with people close to him he is growing remote, he who was so alive, so cheerful, as young at forty-five as when I first met him. Yes, something has changed, since here I am writing about him, about myself, behind his back. If he had done so, I should have felt betrayed. Each of us used to be able to see entirely into the other.

So we can still; it is my anger that is keeping us aparthe will soon make it die away. He will ask me to be patient a little longer: after spells of furious overwork come the calm, easy days. Last year too he often worked in the evenings. Yes, but then I had Lucienne. And above all there was nothing tormenting me. He knows very well that at present I can neither read nor listen to a record, because I am afraid. I shall not leave a note in the hall, but I shall talk to him. After twentytwenty-twoyears of marriage one relies too much upon silenceit is dangerous. I believe these last years I was too wrapped up in the girlsColette was so lovable and Lucienne so difficult. Perhaps I was not as free, as available, as Maurice might have wished. He ought to have pointed it out instead of flinging himself into work that now cuts him off from me. We must have it out together.

Midnight. I am in such a hurry to be at one with him again and to stifle the anger that is still rumbling inside me that I keep my eyes fixed on the clock. Its hands do not move: I grow irritated, all on edge. My mental image of Maurice falls to pieces: what sense is there in fighting against illness and suffering if you behave so stupidly toward your own wife? Its indifference. Its hardness of heart. No point in losing ones temper. Stop it. If Colettes analyses are not good, I shall need all my self-control tomorrow. I must try to go to sleep, then. Sunday 26 September. So its happened. Its happened to me.