The night before last, Laura Douviers, seated on the steps which led to the Moliniers’ flat, had waited for Vincent till three o’clock in the morning; it was not till then that he had come in. As a matter of fact, Vincent had not been at Pedro’s that night. Two days had gone by since he had lost every penny of the five thousand francs. He had informed Laura of this; he had written that he could do nothing more for her; that he advised her to go back to her husband or her father--to confess everything. But things had gone so far, that confession seemed impossible to Laura and she could not contemplate it with any sort of calm. Her lover’s objurgations merely aroused indignation in her--an indignation which only subsided to leave her a prey to despair. This was the state in which Vincent had found her. She had tried to keep him; he had torn himself from her grasp. Doubtless, he had to steel himself to do it, for he had a tender heart; but he was more of a pleasure-seeker than a lover and he had easily persuaded himself that duty itself demanded harshness. He had answered nothing to all her entreaties and lamentations, and as Olivier, who had heard them, told Bernard afterwards, when Vincent shut the door against her, she had sunk down on the steps and remained for a long time sobbing in the dark. More than forty hours had gone by since that night. The day before, Vincent had not gone to Robert de Passavant’s, whose father seemed to be recovering; but that evening a telegram had summoned him. Robert wished to see him. When Vincent entered the room in which Robert usually sat--a room which he used as his study and smoking-room and which he had been at some pains to decorate and fit up in his own fashion--Robert carelessly held out his hand to him over his shoulder, without rising. Robert is writing. He is sitting at a bureau littered with books. Facing him the French window which gives on to the garden, stands wide open in the moonlight. He speaks without turning round. “Do you know what I am writing? But you won’t mention it, will you? You promise, eh?--a manifesto for the opening number of Dhurmer’s review. I shan’t sign it, of course--especially as I puff myself in it.... And then as it’ll certainly come out in the long run that I’m financing it, I don’t want it known too soon that I write for it. So mum’s the word! But it’s just occurred to me--didn’t you say that young brother of yours wrote? What’s his name again?” “Olivier,” says Vincent.