It was love. This time, it was love. And Mathieu thought: 'What have I done?' Five minutes ago this love didn't exist; there was between them a rare and precious feeling, without a name and not expressible in testrues. And he had, in fact, made a gesture, the only one that ought not to have been made, it had come spontaneously. A gesture, and this love had appeared before Mathieu, like some insistent and already commonplace entity. Ivich would from now on think that he loved her, she would think him like the rest: from now on, Mathieu would love Ivich, like the other women he had loved.But even by this time he could no loger recall what he had wanted before. Love was there, compact and comfortable, with its simple desires and all its commonplace contrivings, and it was Mathieu who had brought it into being, in absolute freedom. 'It isn't true', he reflected vehemently:' I don't desire her, I never have desired her' But he already knew that he was going to desire her.
Satre's comment about love, bravo!