Bernard stopped attending; he thought it would be ill-mannered to walk away too quickly, but he began to listen to some others who were quarrelling behind him and who had been joined by Olivier after he had left the young woman; one of them was sitting on a bench, reading _L’Action Française_. Amongst all these youths how grave Olivier Molinier looks! And yet he was one of the youngest. His face, his expression, which are still almost a child’s, reveal a mind older than his years. He blushes easily. There is something tender about him. But however gracious his manners, some kind of secret reserve, some kind of sensitive delicacy, keeps his schoolfellows at a distance. This is a grief to him. But for Bernard, it would be a greater grief still. Molinier, like Bernard, had stayed a minute or two with each of the groups--out of a wish to be agreeable, not that anything he heard interested him. He leant over the reader’s shoulder, and Bernard, without turning round, heard him say: “You shouldn’t read the papers--they’ll give you apoplexy.” The other replied tartly: “As for you, the very name of Maurras makes you turn green.” A third boy asked, deridingly: “Do Maurras’s articles amuse you?” And the first answered: “They bore me bloody well stiff, but I think he’s right.” Then a fourth, whose voice Bernard didn’t recognize: “Unless a thing bores you, you think there’s no depth in it.” “_You_ seem to think that one’s only got to be stupid to be funny.” “Come along,” whispered Bernard, suddenly seizing Olivier by the arm and drawing him aside. “Answer quickly. I’m in a hurry. You told me you didn’t sleep on the same floor as your parents?” “I’ve shown you the door of my room. It opens straight on to the staircase, half a floor below our flat.” “Didn’t you say your brother slept with you?” “George. Yes.” “Are you two alone?” “Yes.” “Can the youngster hold his tongue?” “If necessary.” “Listen. I’ve left home--or at any rate I’m going to this evening. I don’t know where to go yet. Can you take me in for one night?” Olivier turned very pale. His emotion was so great that he was hardly able to look at Bernard. “Yes,” said he, “but don’t come before eleven. Mamma comes down to say good-night to us and lock the door every evening.” “But then...?” Olivier smiled. “I’ve got another key. You must knock softly, so as not to wake George if he’s asleep.” “Will the concierge let me in?” “I’ll warn him. Oh, I’m on very good terms with him. It’s he who gives me the key. Good-bye! Till to-night!”