The Counterfeiters

I

“The time has now come for me to hear a step in the passage,” said Bernard to himself. He raised his head and listened. Nothing! His father and elder brother were away at the law-courts; his mother paying visits; his sister at a concert; as for his small brother Caloub⁠—the youngest⁠—he was safely shut up for the whole afternoon in his day-school. Bernard Profitendieu had stayed at home to cram for his bachot;1 he had only three more weeks before him. His family respected his solitude⁠—not so the demon! Although Bernard had stripped off his coat, he was stifling. The window that looked on to the street stood open, but it let in nothing but heat. His forehead was streaming. A drop of perspiration came dripping from his nose and fell on to the letter he was holding in his hand.

“Pretending to be a tear!” thought he. “But it’s better to sweat than to weep.”

Yes; the date was conclusive. No one could be in question but him, Bernard himself. Impossible to doubt it. The letter was addressed to his mother⁠—a love-letter⁠—seventeen years old, unsigned.