Bernard was much too spontaneous, too natural, too pure--he knew too little of Olivier, to suspect the flood of hideous feelings his letter would raise in his friend’s heart--a kind of tidal wave, in which pique, despair and rage were mingled. He felt himself supplanted in Bernard’s affection and in Edouard’s. The friendship of his two friends left no room for his. One sentence in particular of Bernard’s letter tortured him--a sentence which Bernard would never have written had he imagined all that Olivier read into it: “In the same room,” he repeated to himself--and the serpent of jealousy unrolled its abominable coils and writhed in his heart. “They sleep in the same room!” What did he not imagine? His mind filled with impure visions which he did not even try to banish. He was not jealous in particular either of Edouard or of Bernard; but of the two. He pictured each of them in turn or both simultaneously, and at the same time envied them. He received the letter one forenoon. “Ah! so that’s how it is ...” he kept saying to himself all the rest of the day. That night the fiends of hell inhabited him. Early next morning he rushed off to Robert’s. The Comte de Passavant was waiting for him. II EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: LITTLE BORIS I HAVE had no difficulty in finding little Boris. The day after our arrival, he appeared on the hotel terrace and began looking at the mountains through a telescope which stands outside, mounted on a swivel for the use of the tourists. I recognized him at once. A little girl, rather older than Boris, joined him after a short time. I was sitting near by in the drawing-room, of which the French window was standing open, and I did not lose a word of their conversation. Though I wanted very much to speak to him, I thought it more prudent to wait till I could make the acquaintance of the little girl’s mother--a Polish woman doctor, who is in charge of Boris and keeps very careful watch over him. Little Bronja is an exquisite creature; she must be about fifteen. She wears her fair hair in two thick plaits, which reach to her waist; the expression of her eyes and the sound of her voice are more angelic than human. I write down the two children’s conversation: “Boris, Mamma had rather we didn’t touch the telescope. Won’t you come for a walk?” “Yes, I will. No, I won’t.” The two contradictory sentences were uttered in the same breath. Bronja only answered the second: “Why not?” “Because it’s too hot, it’s too cold.” He had come away from the telescope. “Oh, Boris, do be nice! You know Mamma would like us to go out. Where’s your hat?” “Vibroskomenopatof. Blaf blaf.” “What does that mean?” “Nothing.” “Then why do you say it?” “So that you shouldn’t understand.” “If it doesn’t mean anything, it doesn’t matter about not understanding it.” “But if it did mean something, anyhow you wouldn’t be able to understand.” “When one talks it’s in order to be understood.”