"But the people who go to Mass, the people who believe in God, are all cracked, aren't they?"
Olivier smiled.
"They believe," he said, "as we do. We all believe the same thing. Only their belief is less than ours. They are people who have to shut all the shutters and light the lamp before they can see the light. They see God in the shape of a man. We have keener eyes. But the light that we love is the same."
The boy went home through the dark streets in which the gas-lamps were not yet lit. Olivier's words were ringing in his head. He thought that it was as cruel to laugh at people because they had weak eyes as because they were hunchbacked. And he thought that Rainette had very pretty eyes: and he thought that he had brought tears into them. He could not bear that. He turned and went across to the stationer's. The window was still a little open: and he thrust his head inside and called in a whisper:
"Rainette."
She did not reply.
"Rainette. I beg your pardon."
From the darkness came Rainette's voice, saying:
"Beast! I hate you."
"I'm sorry," he said.