[ If Bastien were trying to play Edgard, he might cower a little at his tone. Take a step away. Crumple his own face with hurt. The fellow is sensitive, empathetic—he might be sorry.

But he isn't trying to play him, so Bastien doesn't disguise his unflappable absence of hurt or alarm at the response. He only tilts his head, face still, eyes thoughtful with a touch of regret, while Edgard explains. ]

They know about me.

[ He doesn't smile, because Edgard is so miserable, but there's a self-deprecating sort of twist to his mouth for a moment, for a private thought. ]

I'm sorry that happened to you. And to him. None of it should have—the whole war. It was bullshit.