They parted without shaking hands. While Bernard was walking away, reflecting on the letter he meant to write for the magistrate to find when he came in, Olivier, not wishing it to be thought that Bernard was the only person he liked talking to in private, went up to Lucien Bercail, who was sitting by himself as usual, for he was generally left a little out of it by the others. Olivier would be very fond of him, if he didn’t prefer Bernard. Lucien is as timid as Bernard is spirited. He cannot hide his weakness; he seems to live only with his head and his heart. He hardly ever dares to make advances, but when he sees Olivier coming towards him, he is beside himself with joy; Lucien writes poetry--everyone suspects as much; but I am pretty sure that Olivier is the only person to whom Lucien talks of his ideas. They walked together to the edge of the terrace. “What I should like,” said Lucien, “would be to tell the story--no, not of a person, but of a place--well, for instance, of a garden path, like this--just tell what happens in it from morning to evening. First of all, come the children’s nurses and the children, and the babies’ nurses with ribbons in their caps.... No, no ... first of all, people who are grey all over and ageless and sexless and who come to sweep the path, and water the grass, and change the flowers--in fact, to set the stage and get ready the scenery before the opening of the gates. D’you see? _Then_ the nurses come in ... the kids make mud-pies and squabble; the nurses smack them. Then the little boys come out of school; then there are the workgirls; then the poor people who eat their scrap upon a bench, and later people come to meet each other, and others avoid each other, and others go by themselves--dreamers. And then when the band plays and the shops close, there’s the crowd.... Students, like us; in the evening, lovers who embrace--others who cry at parting. And at the end, when the day is over, there’s an old couple.... And suddenly the drum beats. Closing time! Everyone goes off. The play is ended. Do you understand? Something which gives the impression of the end of everything--of death ... but without mentioning death, of course.” “Yes, I see it all perfectly,” said Olivier, who was thinking of Bernard and had not listened to a word. “And that’s not all,” went on Lucien, enthusiastically; “I should like to have a kind of epilogue and show the same garden path at night, after everyone has gone, deserted and much more beautiful than in the daytime. In the deep silence; all the natural sounds intensified--the sound of the fountain, and the wind in the trees, and the song of a night-bird. First of all, I thought that I’d bring in some ghosts to wander about--or perhaps some statues--but I think that would be more common place. What do you say?”