y careless manner close to his neighbor as
he pronounced Rovere's name, Bernardet felt his neighbor's whole body
tremble, and that he gave a very perceptible start. Why had he been so
quickly moved by an unknown name if it had not recalled to his mind some
frightful thought? The man might, of course, know, as the public did,
all the details of the crime, but, with his strong, energetic face, his
resolute look, he did not appear like a person who would be troubled by
the recital of a murder, the description of a bloody affray, or even by
the frightful scene which had just passed before his eyes in the hall.

"A man of that stamp is not chicken-hearted," thought Bernardet. "No!
no!" Hearing those words evoked the image of the dead man, Rovere; the
man was not able to master his violent emotion, and he trembled, as if
under an electrical discharge. The shudder had been violent, of short
duration, however, as if he had mastered his emotion by his strong will.
In his involuntary movement he had displayed a tragic eloquence.
Bernardet had seen in the look, in the gesture, in the movement of the
man's head, something of trouble, of doubt, of terror, as in a flash of
lightning in the darkness of night one sees the bottom of a pool.

Bernardet smilingly said to him:

"This sight is not a gay one!"

"No," the man answered, and he also attempted to smile.

He looked back to the stage, where the sombre play went on.

"That poor Rovere!" Bernardet said.

The other man now looked at Bernardet as if to read his thoughts and to
learn what signification the repetition of the same name had. Bernardet
sustained, with a naive look, this mute interrogation. He allowed
nothing of his thoughts to be seen in the clear, childlike depths of his
eyes. He had the air of a good man, frightened by a terrible murder, and
who spoke of the late victim as if he feared for himself. He waited,
hoping that the man would speak.

In some of Bernardet's readings he had come across the magic rule
applicable to love: "Never go! Wait for the other to come!"--"_Nec ire,
fac venire_"--applicable also to hate, to that duel of magnetism between
the hunted man and the police spy, and Bernardet waited for the other to
"come!"

Brusquely, after a silence, while on the little stage the transformation
was still going on, the man asked in a dry tone:

"Why do you speak to me of M. Rovere?"

Bernardet affably replied: "I? Because every one talks of it. It is th