He comes up. He wants to convey to his father that he has understood everything. He would like to manifest his pity, his tenderness, his devotion, but--who would think it of an advocate?--he is extraordinarily awkward at expressing himself--or perhaps he becomes awkward precisely when his feelings are sincere. He kisses his father. The way in which he lays his head upon his shoulder, and leans and lingers there, convinces Profitendieu that his son has understood. He has understood so thoroughly that, raising his head a little, he asks in his usual clumsy fashion--but his heart is so anxious that he cannot refrain from asking: “And Caloub?” The question is absurd, for Caloub’s looks are as strikingly like his family’s as Bernard’s are different. Profitendieu pats Charles on the shoulder: “No, no; it’s all right. Only Bernard.” Then Charles begins pompously: “God has driven the intruder away....” But Profitendieu stops him. He has no need of such words. “Hush!” Father and son have no more to say to each other. Let us leave them. It is nearly eleven o’clock. Let us leave Madame Profitendieu in her room, seated on a small, straight, uncomfortable chair. She is not crying; she is not thinking. She too would like to run away. But she will not. When she was with her lover--Bernard’s father (we need not concern ourselves with him)--she said to herself: “No, no; try as I may, I shall never be anything but an honest woman.” She was afraid of liberty, of crime, of ease--so that after ten days, she returned repentant to her home. Her parents were right when they said to her: “You never know your own mind.” Let us leave her. Cécile is already asleep. Caloub is gazing in despair at his candle; it will never last long enough for him to finish the story-book, with which he is distracting himself from thoughts of Bernard. I should be curious to know what Antoine can have told his friend the cook. But it is impossible to listen to everything. This is the hour appointed for Bernard to go to Olivier. I am not sure where he dined that evening--or even whether he dined at all. He has passed the porter’s room without hindrance; he gropes his way stealthily up the stairs.... III BERNARD AND OLIVIER “_Plenty and peace breeds cowards; hardnes_s _ever_ _Of hardiness is mother._” CYMBELINE, ACT III, SC. VI.