The one, however, upon whom the greater charm was exercised was Edgar. His eyes glowed with enthusiasm. He forgot to eat or drink and stared at the story-teller as if to snatch the words from his lips with his eyes. He had never expected actually to see a man who in his own person had experienced those tremendous things which he read about in his books--tiger hunts, brown men, Hindus, and the terrible Juggernaut, which crushed thousands of men under its wheels. Until then he had thought such men did not really exist and believed in them no more than in fairyland. A certain new and great feeling expanded his chest. He could not remove his eyes from his friend and stared with bated breath at the hands across the table that had actually killed a tiger. Scarcely did he dare to ask a question, and when he ventured to speak it was with a feverish tremor in his voice. His lively imagination drew the picture for each story. He saw his friend mounted high on an elephant caparisoned in purple, brown men to the right and to the left wearing rich turbans, and then suddenly the tiger leaping out of the jungle with gnashing teeth and burying its claws in the elephant's trunk. Now the baron was telling about something even more interesting, how elephants were caught by a trick. Old, domesticated elephants were used to lure the young, wild, high-spirited ones into the enclosure. The child's eyes flashed. Then, as though a knife came cutting through the air right down between him and the baron, his mother said, glancing at the clock: "_Neuf heures. Au lit._" Edgar turned white. To be sent to bed is dreadful enough to grown children at any time. It is the most patent humiliation in adult company, the proclamation that one is still a child, the stigma of being small and needing a child's sleep. But how much more dreadful at so interesting a moment, when the chance of listening to such wonderful things would be lost. "Just this one story, mother, just this one story about the elephants." He was about to plead, but bethought himself quickly of his new dignity. He was a grown-up person. One attempt was all he ventured. But that night his mother was peculiarly strict. "No, it's late already. Just go up. _Sois sage, Edgar._ I'll tell you the story over again exactly the way the baron tells it to me." Edgar lingered a moment. Usually his mother went upstairs with him. But he wasn't going to beg her in front of his friend. His childish pride made him want to give his pitiful withdrawal somewhat, at least, the appearance of being voluntary. "Will you really? Everything? All about the elephants and everything else?" "Yes, Edgar, everything." "To-night still?" "Yes, yes. But go on, go to bed now." Edgar was amazed that he was able to shake hands with the baron and his mother without blushing. The sobs were already choking his throat.