The room next to mine was almost dark. They had closed the shutters. Through the double curtains made out of some thin material I saw the window streaked with shining bars, like the grating in front of a fire. In the torrid silence of the house, in the large slumber it enclosed, bursts of laughter mounted and broke, voices died away, as they had the day before and as they always would. From out of these remoter sounds emerged the distinct sound of footsteps, coming nearer and nearer. I propped myself up against the wall and looked. The door of the Room opened, as if pushed in by the flood of light that streamed through it, and two tiny shadows appeared, engulfed in the brightness. They acted as though they were being pursued. They hesitated on the threshold, the doorway making a frame around those little creatures. And then they entered. The door closed. The Room was now alive. I scrutinised the newcomers. I saw them indistinctly through the dark red and green spots dancing in front of my eyes, which had been dazzled by the flood of light. A little boy and a little girl, twelve or thirteen years old. They sat down on the sofa, and looked at each other in silence. Their faces were almost alike. . . . . . The boy murmured: "You see, Hélène, there is no one here." And a hand pointed to the uncovered bed, and to the empty table and empty clothes-racks--the careful denudation of unoccupied rooms. Then the same hand began to tremble like a leaf. I heard the beating of my heart. The voices whispered: "We are alone. They did not see us." "This is about the first time we've ever been alone together." "Yet we have always known each other." A little laugh. They seemed to need solitude, the first step to a mystery toward which they were travelling together. They had fled from the others. They had created for themselves the forbidden solitude. But you could clearly tell that now that they had found solitude, they did not know what else to look for. . . . . . Then I heard one of them stammer and say sadly, with almost a sob: "We love each other dearly." Then a tender phrase rose breathlessly, groping for words, timidly, like a bird just learning to fly: "I'd like to love you more." To see them thus bent toward each other, in the warm shadow, which bathed them and veiled the childishness of their features, you would have thought them two lovers meeting. Two lovers! That was their dream, though they did not yet know what love meant. One of them had said "the first time." It was the time that they felt they were alone, although these two cousins had been living close together. No doubt it was the first time that the two had sought to leave friendship and childhood behind them. It was the first time that desire had come to surprise and trouble two hearts, which until now had slept. . . . . .