He got up late and had just finished dressing when a messenger brought him a special delivery. His heart leaped when he recognised Dubreuilh's handwriting. 'I just read your farewell letter to L'Espoir. It's really absurd that our attitude accentuates only our differences when so many things draw us together. As for me, I'm still your friend.' There was a postscript. 'I'd like to speak to you as soon as possible regarding someone who seems to wish you ill.' Henri stared at those blue-black lines for a long time. He had thought of writing to him - and it was Dubreuilh who had written. You could impute his generosity to pride, but that was because pride with him was a generous virtue. I’ll go see him straight away,' Henri said to himself and he felt as if an army of red ants had been let loose inside his breast. What had Sezenac said? If he had raised suspicions in Dubreuilh, how would he be able to lie with enough conviction to still them? Since Dubreuilh was offering him his friendship, it was, no doubt, still not too late for lying. But how abominable it would be to reply to such an offer with an abuse of confidence! And yet, what else was there to do? Even Dubreuilh would be shocked by an admission, and then Henri would feel at fault. He got into his car. Now, for the first time, harbouring a secret weighed heavily upon him. It requires you either to deceive someone else or betray yourself; friendship becomes almost impossible. He hesitated for a long time in front of Dubreuilh's door before he could make up his mind to ring.