In the evening the little hunchback would come in. Olivier was so full of stories that he told him one, smiling, eager and engrossed in the tale. Often he would go on talking to himself, with the boy breathing never a word. In the end he would altogether forget his presence. … Christophe arrived in the middle of the story, and was struck by its beauty, and asked Olivier to begin all over again. Olivier refused:
“I am in the same position as yourself,” he said. “I don’t know anything about it.”
“That is not true,” said Christophe. “You’re a regular Frenchman, and you always know exactly what you are doing and saying. You never forget anything.”
“Alas!” said Olivier.
“Begin again, then.”
“I’m too tired. What’s the good?”
Christophe was annoyed.
“That’s all wrong,” he said. “What’s the good of your having ideas? You throw away what you have. It’s an utter waste.”
“Nothing is ever lost,” said Olivier.
The little hunchback started from the stillness he had maintained during Olivier’s story—sitting with his face towards the window, with eyes blankly staring, and a frown on his face and a fierce expression so that it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. He got up and said:
“It will be fine tomorrow.”
“I bet,” said Christophe to Olivier, “that he didn’t even listen.”
“Tomorrow, the First of May,” Emmanuel went on, while his morose expression lighted up.
“That is his story,” said Olivier. “You shall tell it me tomorrow.”
“Nonsense!” said Christophe.
Next day Christophe called for Olivier to take him for a walk in Paris. Olivier was better: but he still had the same strange feeling of exhaustion: he did not want to go out, he had a vague fear, he did not like mixing with the crowd. His heart and mind were brave: but the flesh was weak. He was afraid of a crush, an affray, brutality of all sorts: he knew only too well that he was fated to be a victim, that he could not, even would not, defend himself: for he had as great a horror of giving pain as of suffering it himself. Men who are sick in body shudder away from physical suffering more readily than others, because they are more familiar with it, because they have less power to resist, and because it is presented more immediately and more poignantly to their heated imagination. Olivier was ashamed of this physical cowardice of his which was in entire contradiction to the stoicism of his will: and he tried hard to fight it down. But this morning the thought of human contact of any sort was painful to him, and he would gladly have remained indoors all day long. Christophe scolded him, rallied him, absolutely insisted on his going out and throwing off his stupor: for quite ten days he had not had a breath of air. Olivier pretended not to pay any attention. Christophe said:
“Very well. I’ll go without you. I want to see their First of May. If I don’t come back tonight, you will know that I have been locked up.”
He went out. Olivier caught him up on the stairs. He would not leave Christophe to go alone.
There were very few people in the streets. A few little work-girls wearing sprays of lily-of-the-valley. Working-people in their Sunday clothes were walking about rather listlessly. At the street corners, and near the Métro stations were groups of policemen in plain clothes. The gates of the Luxembourg were closed. The weather was still foggy and damp. It was a long, long time since the sun had shown himself! … The friends walked arm in arm. They spoke but little, but they were very glad of each other. A few words were enough to call up all their tender memories of the intimate past. They stopped in front of a mairie to look at the barometer, which had an upward tendency.
“Tomorrow,” said Olivier, “I shall see the sun.”
They were quite near the house where Cécile lived. They thought of going in and giving the baby a hug.
“No. We can do it
