A certain gravity in Edouard’s tone, in the bearing of the two others, alarmed George. He scented something out of the way--made enquiries. Edouard was obliged to tell him. “But say nothing about it to your parents.” George was delighted to be let into a secret. “A fellow can hold his tongue,” said he. And as he had nothing to do that morning, he proposed to accompany Bernard and Lucien on their way to Dhurmer’s. After his three visitors had left him, Edouard called the charwoman. Next to his own room was a spare room, which he told her to get ready, so that Olivier might be put into it. Then he went noiselessly back to the studio. Olivier was resting. Edouard sat down again beside him. He had taken a book, but he soon threw it aside without having opened it, and watched his friend sleeping. X OLIVIER’S CONVALESCENCE _Rien n’est simple de ce qui s’offre à l’âme; et l’âme ne s’offre jamais simple à aucun sujet_. PASCAL “I THINK he will be glad to see you,” said Edouard to Bernard next morning. “He asked me this morning if you hadn’t come yesterday. He must have heard your voice, at the time when I thought he was unconscious.... He keeps his eyes shut, but he doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t speak. He often puts his hand to his forehead, as if it were aching. Whenever I speak to him he frowns; but if I go away, he calls me back and makes me sit beside him.... No, he isn’t in the studio. I have put him in the spare room next to mine, so that I can receive visitors without disturbing him.” They went into it. “I’ve come to enquire after you,” said Bernard very softly. Olivier’s features brightened at the sound of his friend’s voice. It was almost a smile already. “I was expecting you.” “I’ll go away if I tire you.” “Stay.” But as he said the word, Olivier put his finger on his lips. He didn’t want to be spoken to. Bernard, who was going up for his _viva voce_ in three days’ time, never moved without carrying in his pocket one of those manuals which contain a concentrated elixir of the bitter stuff which is the subject matter of examinations. He sat down beside his bed and plunged into his reading. Olivier, his face turned to the wall, seemed to be asleep. Edouard had gone to his own room, which communicated with Olivier’s; the door between them had been left open, and from time to time he appeared at it. Every two hours he made Olivier drink a glass of milk, but only since that morning. During the whole of the preceding day, the patient had been unable to take any food. A long time went by. Bernard rose to go. Olivier turned round, held out his hand, and with an attempt at a smile: “You’ll come back to-morrow?” At the last moment he called him back, signed to him to stoop down, as if he were afraid of not making himself heard, and whispered: