"Mother, did he sleep in my bed?" The poor woman trembled, and, trying to take on an indifferent tone of voice, she asked: "Who?" "The little boy who is dead," said Jean-Christophe in a whisper. His mother clutched him with her hands. "Be quiet--quiet," she said. Her voice trembled. Jean-Christophe, whose head was leaning against her bosom, heard her heart beating. There was a moment of silence, then she said: "You must never talk of that, my dear.... Go to sleep.... No, it was not his bed." She kissed him. He thought he felt her cheek wet against his. He wished he could have been sure of it. He was a little comforted. There was grief in her then! Then he doubted it again the next moment, when he heard her in the next room talking in a quiet, ordinary voice. Which was true--that or what had just been? He turned about for long in his bed without finding any answer. He wanted his mother to suffer; not that he also did not suffer in the knowledge that she was sad, but it would have done him so much good, in spite of everything! He would have felt himself less alone. He slept, and next day thought no more of it. Some weeks afterwards one of the urchins with whom he played in the street did not come at the usual time. One of them said that he was ill, and they got used to not seeing him in their games. It was explained, it was quite simple. One evening Jean-Christophe had gone to bed; it was early, and from the recess in which his bed was, he saw the light in the room. There was a knock at the door. A neighbor had come to have a chat. He listened absently, telling himself stories as usual. The words of their talk did not reach him. Suddenly he heard the neighbor say: "He is dead." His blood stopped, for he had understood who was dead. He listened and held his breath. His parents cried out. Melchior's booming voice said: "Jean-Christophe, do you hear? Poor Fritz is dead." Jean-Christophe made an effort, and replied quietly: "Yes, papa." His bosom was drawn tight as in a vise. Melchior went on: "'Yes, papa.' Is that all you say? You are not grieved by it." Louisa, who understood the child, said: "'Ssh! Let him sleep!" And they talked in whispers. But Jean-Christophe, pricking his ears, gathered all the details of illness--typhoid fever, cold baths, delirium, the parents' grief. He could not breathe, a lump in his throat choked him. He shuddered. All these horrible things took shape in his mind. Above all, he gleaned that the disease was contagious--that is, that he also might die in the same way--and terror froze him, for he remembered that he had shaken hands with Fritz the last time he had seen him, and that very day had gone past the house. But he made no sound, so as to avoid having to talk, and when his father, after the neighbor had gone, asked him: "Jean-Christophe, are you asleep?" he did not reply. He heard Melchior saying to Louisa: "The boy has no heart."