Christophe spoke in low tones, walked softly, tried hard to make no noise in his room, which was next to that of the silent Olivier: he was transfigured by his friendship: he had an expression of happiness, confidence, youth, such as he had never worn before. He adored Olivier. It would have been easy for the boy to abuse his power if he had not been so timorous in feeling that it was a happiness undeserved: for he thought himself much inferior to Christophe, who in his turn was no less humble. This mutual humility, the product of their great love for each other, was an added joy. It was a pure delight--even with the consciousness of unworthiness--for each to feel that he filled so great a room in the heart of his friend. Each to other they were tender and filled with gratitude. Olivier had mixed his books with Christophe's: they made no distinction. When he spoke of them he did not say "_my_ book," but "_our_ book." He kept back only a few things from the common stock: those which had belonged to his sister or were bound up with her memory. With the quick perception of love Christophe was not slow to notice this: but he did not know the reason of it. He had never dared to ask Olivier about his family: he only knew that Olivier had lost his parents: and to the somewhat proud reserve of his affection, which forbade his prying into his friend's secrets, there was added a fear of calling to life in him the sorrows of the past. Though he might long to do so, yet he was strangely timid and never dared to look closely at the photographs on Olivier's desk, portraits of a lady and a gentleman stiffly posed, and a little girl of twelve with a great spaniel at her feet. A few months after they had taken up their quarters Olivier caught cold and had to stay in bed. Christophe, who had become quite motherly, nursed him with fond anxiety: and the doctor, who, on examining Olivier, had found a little inflammation at the top of the lungs, told Christophe to smear the invalid's chest with tincture of iodine. As Christophe was gravely acquitting himself of the task he saw a confirmation medal hanging from Olivier's neck. He was familiar enough with Olivier to know that he was even more emancipated in matters of religion than himself. He could not refrain from showing his surprise. Olivier colored and said: "It is a souvenir. My poor sister Antoinette was wearing it when she died." Christophe trembled. The name of Antoinette struck him like a flash of lightning. "Antoinette?" he said. "My sister," said Olivier. Christophe repeated: "Antoinette ... Antoinette Jeannin.... She was your sister?... But," he said, as he looked at the photograph on the desk, "she was quite a child when you lost her?" Olivier smiled sadly. "It is a photograph of her as a child," he said. "Alas! I have no other.... She was twenty-five when she left me." "Ah!" said Christophe, who was greatly moved. "And she was in Germany, was she not?" Olivier nodded.