“You’re exaggerating.”
“To kill her.”
“Who was it? You haven’t been imprudent, have you?”
“No; it’s some creature Dhurmer knows. He introduced me. It was her talk that was the most loathsome. She never once stopped jabbering. And oh! the deadly stupidity of it! Why can’t people hold their tongues at such moments, I wonder? I should have liked to strangle her—to gag her.”
“Poor old Olivier! You didn’t think that Dhurmer could get hold of anybody but an idiot, did you? Was she pretty, anyway?”
“D’you suppose I looked at her?”
“You’re a donkey! You’re a darling! … Let’s go to sleep. … But … did you bring it off all right?”
“God! That’s the most disgusting thing about it. I was able to, in spite of everything … just as if I’d desired her.”
“Well, it’s magnificent, my dear boy.”
“Oh, shut up! If that’s what they call love—I’m fed up with it.”
“What a baby you are!”
“What would you have been, pray?”
“Oh, you know, I’m not particularly keen; as I’ve told you before, I’m biding my time. In cold blood, like that, it doesn’t appeal to me. All the same if I—”
“If you … ?”
“If she. … Nothing! Let’s go to sleep.”
And abruptly he turns his back, drawing a little away so as not to touch Olivier’s body, which he feels uncomfortably warm. But Olivier, after a moment’s silence, begins again:
“I say, do you think Barrès will get in?”
“Heavens! does that worry you?”
“I don’t care a damn! I say, just listen to this a minute.” He presses on Bernard’s shoulder, so as to make him turn round—“My brother has got a mistress.”
“George?”
The youngster, who is pretending to be asleep, but who has been listening with all his might in the dark, holds his breath when he hears his name.
“You’re crazy. I mean Vincent.” (Vincent is a few years older than Olivier and has just finished his medical training.)
“Did he tell you?”
“No. I found out without his suspecting. My parents know nothing about it.”
“What would they say if they knew?”
“I don’t know. Mamma would be in despair. Papa would say he must break it off or else marry her.”
“Of course. A worthy bourgeois can’t understand how one can be worthy in any other fashion than his own. How did you find out?”
“Well, for some time past Vincent has been going out at night after my parents have gone to bed. He goes downstairs as quietly as he can, but I recognize his step in the street. Last week—Tuesday, I think, the night was so hot I couldn’t stop in bed. I went to the window to get a breath of fresh air. I heard the door downstairs open and shut, so I leant out and, as he was passing under a lamp post, I recognized Vincent. It was past midnight. That was the first time—I mean the first time I noticed anything. But since then, I can’t help listening—oh! without meaning to—and nearly every night I hear him go out. He’s got a latchkey and our parents have arranged our old room—George’s and mine—as a consulting room for him when he has any patients. His room is by itself on the left of the entrance; the rest of our rooms are on the right. He can go out and come in without anyone knowing. As a rule I don’t hear him come in, but the day before yesterday—Monday night—I don’t know what was the matter with me—I was thinking of Dhurmer’s scheme for a review. … I couldn’t go to sleep. I heard voices on the stairs. I thought it was Vincent.”
“What time was it?” asks Bernard, more to show that he is taking an interest than because he wants to know.
“Three in the morning, I think. I got up and put my ear to the door. Vincent was talking to a woman. Or rather, it was she who was talking.”
“Then how did you know it was he? All the people who live in the flat must pass by your door.”
“And a horrid nuisance it is, too. The later it is, the more row they make. They care no more about the people who are asleep than. … It was certainly he. I heard the woman calling him by his name. She kept saying. … Oh, I can’t bear repeating it. It makes me sick. …”
“Go on.”
“She kept saying: ‘Vincent, my love—my lover. … Oh, don’t leave me!’ ”
“Did she say ‘you’ to him and not ‘thou’?”
“Yes; isn’t it odd?”
“Tell us some more.”
“ ‘You have no right to desert me now. What is to become of me? Where am I to go? Say something to me! Oh, speak to me!’ … And she called him again by his name, and went on repeating: ‘My lover! My lover!’ And her voice became sadder and sadder and lower and lower. And then I heard a noise (they must have been standing on the stairs), a noise like something falling. I think she must have flung herself on her knees.”
“And didn’t he answer anything? Nothing at all?”
“He must have gone up the last steps; I heard the door of the flat shut. And after that, she stayed a long time quite near—almost up against my door. I heard her sobbing.”
“You should have opened the door.”
“I didn’t dare. Vincent would be furious if he thought I knew anything about his affairs. And then I was afraid it might embarrass her to be found crying. I don’t know what I could have said to her.”
Bernard had turned towards Olivier:
“In your place I should have opened.”
“Oh, you! You’re never afraid of anything. You do everything that comes into your head.”
“Is that a reproach?”
“Oh, no. It’s envy.”
“Have you any idea who the woman is?”
“How on earth should I know? Good night.”
“I say, are you sure George hasn’t heard us?” whispers Bernard in Olivier’s ear. They listen a moment with bated breath.
“No,” Olivier goes on in his ordinary voice. “He’s asleep. And besides, he wouldn’t understand. Do you know what he asked Papa the other day … ?”
At this, George can contain himself no longer.
