The Counterfeiters

not concern ourselves with him)⁠—she said to herself: “No, no; try as I may, I shall never be anything but an honest woman.” She was afraid of liberty, of crime, of ease⁠—so that after ten days, she returned repentant to her home. Her parents were right when they said to her: “You never know your own mind.” Let us leave her. Cécile is already asleep. Caloub is gazing in despair at his candle; it will never last long enough for him to finish the storybook, with which he is distracting himself from thoughts of Bernard. I should be curious to know what Antoine can have told his friend the cook. But it is impossible to listen to everything. This is the hour appointed for Bernard to go to Olivier. I am not sure where he dined that evening⁠—or even whether he dined at all. He has passed the porter’s room without hindrance; he gropes his way stealthily up the stairs.⁠ ⁠…

III

Bernard and Olivier

“Plenty and peace breeds cowards; hardness ever
Of hardiness is mother.”

Cymbeline, Act III, scene VI

Olivier had got into bed to receive his mother, who was in the habit of coming every evening to kiss her two younger sons good night before they went to sleep. He might have got up and dressed again to receive Bernard, but he was still uncertain whether he would come and was afraid of doing anything to rouse his younger brother’s suspicions. George as a rule went to sleep early and woke up late; perhaps he would never notice that anything unusual was going on. When he heard a gentle scratching outside, Olivier sprang from his bed, thrust his feet hastily into his bedroom slippers, and ran to open the door. He did not light a candle; the moon gave light enough; there was no need for any other. Olivier hugged Bernard in his arms:

“How I was longing for you! I couldn’t believe you would really come,” said Olivier, and in the dimness he saw Bernard shrug his shoulders. “Do your parents know you are not sleeping at home tonight?”

Bernard looked straight in front of him into the dark.

“You think I ought to have asked their leave, eh?”

His tone of voice was so coldly ironical that Olivier at once felt the absurdity of his question. He had not yet grasped that Bernard had left “for good”; he thought that he only meant to sleep out that one night and was a little perplexed as to the reason of this escapade. He began to question: When did Bernard think of going home?⁠—Never!

Light began to dawn on Olivier. He was very anxious to be equal to the occasion and not to be surprised at anything; nevertheless an exclamation broke from him:

“What a tremendous decision!”

Bernard was by no means unwilling to astonish his friend a little; he was particularly flattered by the admiration which these words betrayed, but he shrugged his shoulders once more. Olivier took hold of his hand and asked very gravely and anxiously:

“But why are you leaving?”

“That, my dear fellow, is a family matter. I can’t tell you.” And in order not to seem too serious he amused himself by trying to jerk off with the tip of his shoe the slipper that Olivier was swinging on his bare toes⁠—for they were sitting down now on the side of the bed. There! Off it goes!

“Then where do you mean to live?”

“I don’t know.”

“And how?”

“That remains to be seen.”

“Have you any money?”

“Enough for breakfast tomorrow.”

“And after that?”

“After that I shall look about me. Oh, I’m sure to find something. You’ll see. I’ll let you know.”

---

Olivier admires his friend with immense fervour. He knows him to be resolute; but he cannot help doubting; when he is at the end of his resources, and feeling, as soon he must, the pressure of want, won’t he be obliged to go back? Bernard reassures him⁠—he will do anything in the world rather than return to his people. And as he repeats several times over more and more savagely⁠—“anything in the world!”⁠—Olivier’s heart is stabbed with a pang of terror. He wants to speak but dares not. At last with downcast head and unsteady voice, he begins:

“Bernard, all the same, you’re not thinking of⁠ ⁠…” but he stops. His friend raises his eyes and, though he cannot see him very distinctly, perceives his confusion.

“Of what?” he asks. “What do you mean? Tell me. Of stealing?”

Olivier shakes his head. No, that’s not it! Suddenly he bursts into tears and clasping Bernard convulsively in his arms:

“Promise me that you won’t.⁠ ⁠…”

Bernard kisses him, then pushes him away laughing. He has understood.

“Oh! yes! I promise.⁠ ⁠… But all the same you must admit it would be the easiest way out.” But Olivier feels reassured; he knows that these last words are an affectation of cynicism.

“Your exam?”

“Yes; that’s rather a bore. I don’t want to be ploughed. I think I’m ready all right. It’s more a question of feeling fit on the day. I must manage to get something fixed up very quickly. It’s touch and go; but I shall manage. You’ll see.”

They sit for a moment in silence. The second slipper has fallen.

Then Bernard: “You’ll catch cold. Get back into bed.”

“No; you must get into bed.”

“You’re joking. Come along! quick!” and he forces Olivier to get into the bed which he has already lain down in and which is all tumbled.

“But you? Where are you going to sleep?”

“Anywhere. On the floor. In a corner. I must get accustomed to roughing it.”

“No. Look here! I want to tell you something, but I shan’t be able to unless I feel you close to me. Get into my bed.” And when Bernard, after undressing himself in a twinkling, has got in beside him:

“You know⁠ ⁠… what I told you the other day⁠ ⁠… well, it’s come off. I went.”

There was no need to say more for Bernard to understand. He pressed up against his friend.

“Well! it’s disgusting⁠ ⁠… horrible.⁠ ⁠… Afterwards I wanted to