“Wait, Edouard, there’s one thing more ...” and her voice suddenly became very grave. “It’ll probably be a long time before we see each other again. I should like you to say ... I should like to know whether I may still count on you ... as a friend.” Never did I feel more inclined to embrace her than at that moment--but I contented myself with kissing her hand tenderly and impetuously, and with murmuring: “Come what come may.” And then, to hide the tears which I felt rising to my eyes, I hurried off to find Olivier. He was sitting on the stairs with Armand, watching for me to come out. He was certainly a little tipsy. He got up and pulled me by the arm: “Come along,” he said. “We’re going to have a cigarette in Sarah’s room. She’s expecting you.” “In a moment. I must first go up and see Monsieur Azaïs. But I shall never be able to find the room.” “Oh, yes. You know it very well. It’s Laura’s old room,” cried Armand. “As it was one of the best rooms in the house, it was given to the parlour-boarder, but as she doesn’t pay much, she shares it with Sarah. They put in two beds for form’s sake--not that there was much need....” “Don’t listen to him,” said Olivier, laughing and giving him a shove, “he’s drunk.” “And what about you?” answered Armand. “Well then, you’ll come, won’t you? We shall expect you.” I promised to rejoin them. Now that he has cut his hair _en brosse_, old Azaïs doesn’t look like Walt Whitman any more. He has handed over the first and second floors of the house to his son-in-law. From the windows of his study (mahogany, rep and horse-hair furniture) he can look over the play-ground and keep an eye on the pupils’ goings and comings. “You see how spoilt I am,” he said, pointing to a huge bouquet of chrysanthemums which was standing on the table, and which a mother of one of the pupils--an old friend of the family’s--had just left for him. The atmosphere of the room was so austere that it seemed as if any flower must wither in it at once. “I have left the party for a moment. I’m getting old and all this noisy talk tires me. But these flowers will keep me company. They have their own way of talking and tell the glory of God better than men” (or some such stuff). The worthy man has no conception how much he bores his pupils with remarks of this kind; he is so sincere in making them, that one hasn’t the heart to be ironical. Simple souls like his are certainly the ones I find it most difficult to understand. If one is a little less simple oneself, one is forced into a kind of pretence; not very honest, but what is one to do? It is impossible either to argue or to say what one thinks; one can only acquiesce. If one’s opinions are the least bit different from his, Azaïs forces one to be hypocritical. When I first used to frequent the family, the way in which his grandchildren lied to him made me indignant. I soon found myself obliged to follow suit.