“I, monsieur—I was never so well.”
“You have a tired look, and your eyes seem weak.”
“Oh! that’s because I read a great deal at night.”
“I didn’t know that you were so fond of reading.”
“That depends on the book, monsieur; I’m reading the life of the great Turenne.”
“You must know it by heart.”
“I never get tired of it, monsieur.”
Auguste asked no more questions. Some time after, one night when he could not sleep because, with all his philosophy, his reflections were beginning to be less cheerful, Auguste got out of bed and determined to try reading himself. He went to Bertrand’s room to get a light, and was amazed to find that his companion was absent. Bertrand’s bed was not disturbed, so that he had not retired; and yet it was late when Auguste came home, and Bertrand was apparently waiting for him to come in before going to bed.
That midnight absence disturbed Auguste. He had no idea that his faithful follower would go about to wine-shops with Schtrack, in their present condition, and as he wished to find out at what time Bertrand left the house, he went downstairs, having decided to rouse Schtrack if necessary; he was determined to learn what had become of Bertrand.
It was three o’clock in the morning and everybody in the house was asleep, but Auguste saw a light in the concierge’s lodge; the door was ajar and the light came from the room at the rear. Auguste went in and discovered Bertrand seated on a table beside the sleeping Schtrack, working resolutely on a piece of cloth in which his tired eyes could hardly follow the threads which were his guide.