“Tell us some more.” “‘You have no right to desert me now. What is to become of me? Where am I to go? Say something to me! Oh, speak to me!’... And she called him again by his name, and went on repeating: ‘My lover! My lover!’ And her voice became sadder and sadder and lower and lower. And then I heard a noise (they must have been standing on the stairs), a noise like something falling. I think she must have flung herself on her knees.” “And didn’t he answer anything? Nothing at all?” “He must have gone up the last steps; I heard the door of the flat shut. And after that, she stayed a long time quite near--almost up against my door. I heard her sobbing.” “You should have opened the door.” “I didn’t dare. Vincent would be furious if he thought I knew anything about his affairs. And then I was afraid it might embarrass her to be found crying. I don’t know what I could have said to her.” Bernard had turned towards Olivier: “In your place I should have opened.” “Oh, you! You’re never afraid of anything. You do everything that comes into your head.” “Is that a reproach?” “Oh, no. It’s envy.” “Have you any idea who the woman is?” “How on earth should I know? Good-night.” “I say, are you sure George hasn’t heard us?” whispers Bernard in Olivier’s ear. They listen a moment with bated breath. “No,” Olivier goes on in his ordinary voice. “He’s asleep. And besides, he wouldn’t understand. Do you know what he asked Papa the other day...?” At this, George can contain himself no longer. He sits up in his bed and breaks into his brother’s sentence. “You ass!” he cries. “Didn’t you see I was doing it on purpose?... Good Lord, yes! I’ve heard every word you’ve been saying. But you needn’t excite yourselves. I’ve known all about Vincent for ever so long. And now, my young friends, talk a little lower please, because I’m sleepy--or else hold your tongues.” Olivier turns toward the wall. Bernard, who cannot sleep, looks out into the room. It seems bigger in the moonlight. As a matter of fact, he hardly knows it. Olivier was never there during the daytime; the few times that Bernard had been to see him, it was in the flat upstairs. But it was after school hours, when they came out of the _lycée_, that the two friends usually met. The moonlight has reached the foot of the bed in which George has at last gone to sleep; he has heard almost everything that his brother has said. He has matter for his dreams. Above George’s bed Bernard can just make out a little book-case with two shelves full of school-books. On a table near Olivier’s bed, he sees a larger sized book; he puts out his hand and takes it to look at the title--Tocqueville; but as he is putting it back on the table, he drops it and the noise wakes Olivier up. “Are you reading Tocqueville now?” “Dulac lent it me.” “Do you like it?” “It’s rather boring, but some of it’s very good.” “I say, what are you doing to-morrow?”