But what would have been his thoughts if he had known that his fears were well founded, if he had known that he had been followed since he left the hotel, that the witness whose presence he had felt so near him in the dark, until the moment he began to run, was none other than Olivier? The house stood closed and silent in all the mystery of its shadows, with isolated spots of light where the lamp shone full upon it. The same vast silence of night that had oppressed Pierre while upon the wall, the silence broken by the distant baying of a dog, still enveloped the country. The trees still quivered, and the flowers poured forth their perfume. The stars still shone, and Olivier remained motionless at the edge of the garden, in the place where he had thrown himself down so that his friend might not see him. His suffering at this moment was not the suffering of some one who struggles and fights. When he saw Pierre at luncheon, his contracted features, his shining eyes, his trembling lips, had revealed to him that something had happened. He was so weary of fighting, so tired of always struggling with his own heart, of seeing so much suffering in his friend's heart! Besides, what more could he ask him after the conversation of the night before? So he kept silent. What was the good of continually torturing each other? Then, as Hautefeuille's agitation increased, his suspicions were aroused. He thought, "She has written to him asking for a meeting!" But no, it was not possible! To receive a letter from Ely, read it, and not speak about it was a crime against their friendship under their present relations that Pierre would never be guilty of. Olivier struggled to convince himself of the madness of his suspicion. The emotion of his friend communicated itself to him. He felt, when he took his hand upon separating for the night, that his betrayal was near, was certain, was even then an accomplished fact! Why did he not speak to him at that moment? A heart that has been deceived often yields to such an impulse of renunciation. It is impossible to struggle against certain unexpected events, it is impossible to complain of them. What reproach could he make to Pierre? What was the good of reproaching him if he had really conceived the idea of breaking the compact he had entered into with him? Yes, what was the good? And Olivier remained leaning upon the windowsill, summoning up all his dignity to keep from going to his friend's room while repeating that it was impossible.