He has a particularly odd and amusing way of moralizing. The other day he said to me: “You see, my dear boy, the important thing in life is not to step on to the downward path. One thing leads on to another and one never can tell how it will end. For instance, I once knew a very worthy young man who was engaged to marry my cook’s daughter. One night he chanced to go into a small jeweller’s shop; he killed the owner; then he robbed; after that he dissembled. You see where it leads. The last time I saw him he had taken to lying. So do be careful.” “He’s like that the whole time. So there’s no chance of being bored. We left with the idea of getting through a lot of work, but so far we’ve done nothing but bathe, dry in the sun and talk. He has extremely original ideas and opinions about everything. I am trying to persuade him all I can to write about some new theories he has on deep-sea fishes and what he calls their “private lights,” which enables them to do without the light of the sun--which he compares to grace and revelation. Told baldly like that it doesn’t sound anything, but I assure you that when he talks about it, it’s as interesting as a novel. People don’t know that he’s extremely well up in natural history; but he kind of prides himself on hiding his knowledge--what he calls his secret jewels. He says it’s only snobs who like showing off all their possessions--especially if they’re imitation. He knows admirably well how to make use of ideas, images, people, things; that is, he gets something out of everything. He says the great art of life is not so much to enjoy things as to make the most of them. I have written a few verses, but I don’t care enough about them to send them to you. Good-bye, old boy. Till October. You will find me changed, too. Every day I get a little more self-confidence. I am glad to hear you are in Switzerland, but you see that I have no cause to envy you. OLIVIER. Bernard held this letter out to Edouard, who read it without showing any sign of the feelings that agitated him. Everything that Olivier said of Robert with such complacency filled him with indignation and put the final touch to his detestation. What hurt him more than anything was that Olivier had not even mentioned him in his letter and seemed to have forgotten him. He tried in vain to decipher three lines of postscript, which had been heavily inked over and which had run as follows: “Tell Uncle E. that I think of him constantly; that I cannot forgive him for having chucked me and that my heart has been mortally wounded.” These lines were the only sincere ones in a letter which had been written for show and inspired by pique. Olivier had crossed them out.