For the price which Laura paid for her room (I mean, which the hotel-keeper asked her) one could not have expected the furniture to be elegant, but one might have hoped it would be solid. Now the small arm-chair, which Bernard pushed towards Laura, was somewhat unsteady on its feet; that is to say, it had a great propensity to fold back one of its legs, as a bird does under its wing--which is natural enough in a bird, but unusual and regrettable in an arm-chair; this one, moreover, hid its infirmity as best it could beneath a thick fringe. Laura was well acquainted with her arm-chair, and knew that it must be handled with extreme precaution; but in her agitation she forgot this and only remembered it when she felt the chair giving way beneath her. She suddenly gave a little cry--quite different from the long moan she had uttered just before, slipped to one side, and a moment later found herself sitting on the floor, between the arms of Bernard, who had hurried to the rescue. Bashful, but amused, he had been obliged to put one knee on the ground. Laura’s face therefore happened to be quite close to his; he watched her blush. She made an effort to get up; he helped her. “You’ve not hurt yourself?” “No; thanks to you. This arm-chair is ridiculous; it has been mended once already.... I think if the leg is put quite straight, it will hold.” “I’ll arrange it,” said Bernard. “There!... Will you try it?” Then, thinking better of it: “No; allow me. It would be safer for me to try it first. Look! It’s all right now. I can move my legs” (which he did, laughing). Then, as he rose: “Sit down now, and if you’ll allow me to stay a moment or two longer, I’ll take this chair. I’ll sit near you, so that I shall be able to prevent you from falling. Don’t be frightened.... I wish I could do more for you.” There was so much ardour in his voice, so much reserve in his manners, and in his movements so much grace, that Laura could not forbear a smile. “You haven’t told me your name yet.” “Bernard.” “Yes. But your family name?” “I have no family.” “Well, your parents’ name.” “I have no parents. That is, I am what the child you are expecting will be--a bastard.” The smile vanished from Laura’s face; she was outraged by this insistent determination to force an entrance into her intimacy and to violate the secret of her life. “But how do you know?... Who told you?... You have no right to know....” Bernard was launched now; he spoke loudly and boldly: “I know both what my friend Olivier knows and what your friend Edouard knows. Only each of them as yet knows only half your secret. I am probably the only person besides yourself to know the whole of it.... So you see,” he added more gently, “it’s essential that I should be your friend.” “Oh, how can people be so indiscreet?” murmured Laura sadly. “But ... if you haven’t seen Edouard, he can’t have spoken to you. Has he written to you?... Is it he who has sent you?”...