"You do me wrong, my dear heart," groaned Otto. "You draw tears from me. I do not deserve this. But you can do as you will. You have such rights over me that, if you were to break my soul, there would always be a spark left to live and love you always!" "Heavenly powers!" cried Jean-Christophe. "I have made my friend weep!... Heap insults on me, beat me, trample me underfoot! I am a wretch! I do not deserve your love!" They had special ways of writing the address on their letters, of placing the stamp--upside down, askew, at bottom in a corner of the envelope--to distinguish their letters from those which they wrote to persons who did not matter. These childish secrets had the charm of the sweet mysteries of love. * * * * * One day, as he was returning from a lesson, Jean-Christophe saw Otto in the street with a boy of his own age. They were laughing and talking familiarly. Jean-Christophe went pale, and followed them with his eyes until they had disappeared round the corner of the street. They had not seen him. He went home. It was as though a cloud had passed over the sun; all was dark. When they met on the following Sunday, Jean-Christophe said nothing at first; but after they had been walking for half an hour he said in a choking voice: "I saw you on Wednesday in the _Königgasse_." "Ah!" said Otto. And he blushed. Jean-Christophe went on: "You were not alone." "No," said Otto; "I was with some one." Jean-Christophe swallowed down his spittle and asked in a voice which he strove to make careless: "Who was it?" "My cousin Franz." "Ah!" said Jean-Christophe; and after a moment: "You have never said anything about him to me." "He lives at Rheinbach." "Do you see him often?" "He comes here sometimes." "And you, do you go and stay with him?" "Sometimes." "Ah!" said Jean-Christophe again. Otto, who was not sorry to turn the conversation, pointed out a bird who was pecking at a tree. They talked of other things. Ten minutes later Jean-Christophe broke out again: "Are you friends with him?" "With whom?" asked Otto. (He knew perfectly who was meant.) "With your cousin." "Yes. Why?" "Oh, nothing!" Otto did not like his cousin much, for he used to bother him with bad jokes; but a strange malign instinct made him add a few moments later: "He is very nice." "Who?" asked Jean-Christophe. (He knew quite well who was meant.) "Franz." Otto waited for Jean-Christophe to say something, but he seemed not to have heard. He was cutting a switch from a hazel-tree. Otto went on: "He is amusing. He has all sorts of stories." Jean-Christophe whistled carelessly. Otto renewed the attack: "And he is so clever ... and distinguished!..." Jean-Christophe shrugged his shoulders as though to say: "What interest can this person have for me?" And as Otto, piqued, began to go on, he brutally cut him short, and pointed out a spot to which to run.