Touched or not, Dhurmer must consider that he had had his ears boxed; so Justinien, as he dabbed his eye, endeavoured to make him understand. It was a question of dignity. But Dhurmer was not in the least inclined to receive lessons in dignity from Justinien. He kept on repeating obstinately:
“Didn’t touch me! … Didn’t touch me!”
“Can’t you leave him alone?” said des Brousses. “One can’t force a fellow to fight if he doesn’t want to.”
Olivier, however, declared in a loud voice, that if Dhurmer wasn’t satisfied, he was ready to box his ears again; and, determined to force a duel, asked Bernard and Bercail to be his seconds. Neither of them knew anything about so-called “affairs of honour”; but Olivier didn’t dare apply to Edouard. His necktie had come undone; his hair had fallen over his forehead, which was dank with sweat; his hands trembled convulsively.
Edouard took him by the arm:
“Come and bathe your face a little. You look like a lunatic.”
He led him away to a lavatory.
As soon as he was out of the room, Olivier understood how drunk he was. When he had felt Edouard’s hand laid upon his arm, he thought he was going to faint, and let himself be led away unresisting. Of all that Edouard had said to him, he only understood that he had called him “thou.” As a storm-cloud bursts into rain, he felt his heart suddenly dissolve in tears. A damp towel which Edouard put to his forehead brought him finally to his sober senses again. What had happened? He was vaguely conscious of having behaved like a child, like a brute. He felt himself ridiculous, abject. … Then, quivering with distress and tenderness, he flung himself towards Edouard, pressed up against him and sobbed out:
“Take me away!”
Edouard was extremely moved himself:
“Your parents?” he asked.
“They don’t know I’m back.”
As they were going through the café downstairs on the way out, Olivier said to his companion that he had a line to write.
“If I post it tonight it’ll get there tomorrow morning.”
Seated at a table in the café he wrote as follows:
My dear George,
Yes, this letter is from me, and it’s to ask you to do something for me. I don’t suppose it’s news to you to hear I am back in Paris, for I think you saw me this morning near the Sorbonne. I was staying with the Comte de Passavant (Rue de Babylone); my things are still there. For reasons it would be too long to explain and which wouldn’t interest you, I prefer not to go back to him. You are the only person I can ask to go and fetch them away—my things, I mean. You’ll do this for me, won’t you? I’ll remember it when it’s your turn. There’s a locked trunk. As for the things in the room, put them yourself into my suitcase, and bring the lot to Uncle Edouard’s. I’ll pay for the taxi. Tomorrow’s Sunday fortunately; you’ll be able to do it as soon as you get this line. I can count upon you, can’t I?
Those who had not heard Dhurmer’s insulting words could not understand the reason of Olivier’s sudden assault. He seemed to have lost his head. If he had kept cool, Bernard would have approved him; he didn’t like Dhurmer; but he had to admit that Olivier had behaved like a madman and put himself entirely in the wrong. It pained Bernard to hear him judged severely. He went up to Bercail and made an appointment with him. However absurd the affair was, they were both anxious to conduct it correctly. They agreed to go and call on their client at nine o’clock the next morning.
When his two friends had gone, Bernard had neither reason nor inclination to stay. He looked round the room in search of Sarah and his heart swelled with a kind of rage to see her sitting on Passavant’s knee. They both seemed drunk; Sarah, however, rose when she saw Bernard coming up.
“Let’s go,” she said, taking his arm.
She wanted to walk home. It was not far. They spoke not a word on the way. At the pension all the lights were out. Fearful of attracting attention, they groped their way to the backstairs, and there struck matches. Armand was waiting for them. When he heard them coming upstairs, he went out on to the landing with a lamp in his hand.
“Take the lamp,” said he to Bernard. “Light Sarah; there’s no candle in her room … and give me your matches so that I can light mine.” Bernard accompanied Sarah into the inner room. They were no sooner inside than Armand, leaning over from behind them, blew the lamp out at a single breath, then, with a chuckle:
“Good night!” said he. “But don’t make a row. The parents are sleeping next door.”
Then, suddenly stepping back, he shut the door on them; and bolted it.
IX
Olivier and Edouard
Armand has lain down in his clothes. He knows he will not be able to sleep. He waits for the night to come to an end. He meditates. He listens. The house is resting, the town, the whole of nature; not a sound.
As soon as a faint light, cast down by the reflector from the narrow strip of sky above, enables him to distinguish once more the hideous squalor of his room, he rises. He goes towards the door
