And abruptly he turns his back, drawing a little away so as not to touch Olivier’s body, which he feels uncomfortably warm. But Olivier, after a moment’s silence, begins again: “I say, do you think Barrès will get in?” “Heavens! does that worry you?” “I don’t care a damn! I say, just listen to this a minute.” He presses on Bernard’s shoulder, so as to make him turn round--“My brother has got a mistress.” “George?” The youngster, who is pretending to be asleep, but who has been listening with all his might in the dark, holds his breath when he hears his name. “You’re crazy. I mean Vincent.” (Vincent is a few years older than Olivier and has just finished his medical training.) “Did he tell you?” “No. I found out without his suspecting. My parents know nothing about it.” “What would they say if they knew?” “I don’t know. Mamma would be in despair. Papa would say he must break it off or else marry her.” “Of course. A worthy bourgeois can’t understand how one can be worthy in any other fashion than his own. How did you find out?” “Well, for some time past Vincent has been going out at night after my parents have gone to bed. He goes downstairs as quietly as he can, but I recognize his step in the street. Last week--Tuesday, I think, the night was so hot I couldn’t stop in bed. I went to the window to get a breath of fresh air. I heard the door downstairs open and shut, so I leant out and, as he was passing under a lamp post, I recognized Vincent. It was past midnight. That was the first time--I mean the first time I noticed anything. But since then, I can’t help listening--oh! without meaning to--and nearly every night I hear him go out. He’s got a latchkey and our parents have arranged our old room--George’s and mine--as a consulting room for him when he has any patients. His room is by itself on the left of the entrance; the rest of our rooms are on the right. He can go out and come in without anyone knowing. As a rule I don’t hear him come in, but the day before yesterday--Monday night--I don’t know what was the matter with me--I was thinking of Dhurmer’s scheme for a review.... I couldn’t go to sleep. I heard voices on the stairs. I thought it was Vincent.” “What time was it?” asks Bernard, more to show that he is taking an interest than because he wants to know. “Three in the morning, I think. I got up and put my ear to the door. Vincent was talking to a woman. Or rather, it was she who was talking.” “Then how did you know it was he? All the people who live in the flat must pass by your door.” “And a horrid nuisance it is, too. The later it is, the more row they make. They care no more about the people who are asleep than.... It was certainly he. I heard the woman calling him by his name. She kept saying.... Oh, I can’t bear repeating it. It makes me sick....” “Go on.” “She kept saying: ‘Vincent, my love--my lover.... Oh, don’t leave me!’” “Did she say _you_ to him and not _thou_?” “Yes; isn’t it odd?”