Bernard was grave. His struggle with the angel had matured him. He no longer resembled the careless youth who had stolen the suit-case and who thought that all that is needed in this world is to be daring. He was beginning to understand that boldness is often achieved at the expense of other people’s happiness. “I have come to ask for shelter,” said he to Edouard. “Here I am again without a roof.” “Why are you leaving the Vedels’?” “For private reasons ... forgive me for not telling you.” Edouard had observed Bernard and Sarah on the evening of the dinner enough to guess at the meaning of this silence. “All right,” he said smiling. “The couch in my studio is at your service. But I must first tell you that your father came to see me yesterday.” And he repeated the part of their conversation which he thought likely to touch him. “It is not in my house that you ought to spend the night, but in his. He is expecting you.” Bernard, however, kept silent. “I will think about it,” he said at last. “Allow me in the mean time to leave my things here. May I see Olivier?” “The weather is so fine, that I advised him to go out. I wanted to go with him, for he is still very weak, but he wouldn’t let me. But it’s more than an hour since he left and he will be back soon. You had better wait for him.... But I’ve just thought.... Your examination?” “I’ve passed; but it’s of no importance; the important thing is to know what I’m to do now. Do you know the chief reason that prevents me from going back to my father’s? It’s because I don’t want to take his money. You’ll think me absurd to fling away such an opportunity; but I made a vow that I would make my way without it. I feel I must prove to myself that I am a man of my word--someone I can count on.” “It strikes me as pride more than anything else.” “Call it by any name you please--pride, presumption, conceit ... it’s a feeling you won’t succeed in cheapening in my eyes. But at the present moment, what I should like to know is this--is it necessary to fix one’s eyes on a goal in order to guide oneself in life?” “Explain.” “I wrestled over it all last night. What am I to do with the strength I feel I possess? To what use am I to put it? How am I to get out of myself the best that’s in me? Is it by aiming at a goal? But how choose such a goal? How know what it is before reaching it?” “To live without a goal, is to give oneself up to chance.” “I am afraid you don’t understand. When Columbus discovered America did he know towards what he was sailing? His goal was to go ahead, straight in front of him. Himself was his goal, impelling him to go ahead....” “I have often thought,” interrupted Edouard, “that in art, and particularly in literature, the only people who count are those who launch out on to unknown seas. One doesn’t discover new lands without consenting to lose sight of the shore for a very long time. But our writers are afraid of the open; they are mere coasters.”