"Who lives in the house?"
"Who? My wife, to begin with. She has the first floor."
"Mme. Fauville is not threatened?"
"No, not at all. It's I who am threatened with death; I and my son Edmond. That is why, for the past week, instead of sleeping in my regular bedroom, I have locked myself up in this room. I have given my work as a pretext; a quantity of writing which keeps me up very late and for which I need my son's assistance."
"Does he sleep here, then?"
"He sleeps above us, in a little room which I have had arranged for him.
The only access to it is by this inner staircase."
"Is he there now?"
"Yes, he's asleep."
"How old is he?"
"Sixteen."