 CHAPTER IV of Pierre and Jean by Guy de Montpeissant, translated by Clara Bell. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. These slumbers, lapped in champagne and chartreuse, had soothed and calmed him, no doubt, for he awoke in a very benevolent frame of mind. While he was dressing, he appraised, weighed, and summed up the agitations of the past day, trying to bring out quite clearly and fully their real and occult causes, those personal to himself as well as those from outside. It was, in fact, possible that the girl at the beer-shop had had an evil suspicion, the suspicion worthy of such a hussy, on hearing that only one of the Hollande brothers had been made heir to a stranger. But have not such natures as she always similar notions without a shadow of foundation about every honest woman? Do they not, whenever they speak, vilify, columniate, and abuse all whom they believe to be blameless? Whenever a woman who is above imputation is mentioned in their presence, they are as angry as if they were being insulted, and exclaim, Ah, yes, I know you are married women, a pretty sort they are. Why, they have more lovers than we have, only they conceal it because they are such hypocrites. Oh, yes, a pretty sort indeed. Under any other circumstances he would certainly not have understood, not have imagined the possibility of such an insinuation against his poor mother, who was so kind, so simple, so excellent. But his spirit seathed with the leaven of jealousy that was fermenting within him. His own excited mind, on the scent, as it were, in spite of himself, for all that could damage his brother, had even perhaps attributed to the tavern barmaid an odious intention of which she was innocent. It was possible that his imagination had, unaided, invented this dreadful doubt, his imagination which he never controlled, which constantly evaded his will and went off unfettered, audacious, adventurous, and stealthy into the infinite world of ideas, bringing back now and then some which were shameless and repulsive, and which it buried in the depths of his soul in its most fathomless recesses, like something stolen. His heart, most certainly, his own heart, had secrets from him, and had not that wounded heart discerned in this atrocious doubt a means of depriving his brother of the inheritance of which he was jealous? She suspected himself now, cross-examining all the mysteries of his mind as bigots search their consciences. Madame Rosmeille, though her intelligence was limited, had certainly a woman's instinct, scent, and subtle intuitions, and this notion had never entered her head, since she had, with perfect simplicity, drunk to the blessed memory of the deceased Marshal. She was not the woman to have done this if she had had the faintest suspicion. Now he doubted no longer. His involuntary displeasure at his brother's windfall of fortune, and his religious affection for his mother, had magnified his scruples, very pious and respectable scruples, but exaggerated. As he put this conclusion into words in his own mind, he felt happy, as at the doing of a good action, and he resolved to be nice to everyone, including with his father, whose mania's and silly statements and vulgar opinions and too conspicuous mediocrity were a constant irritation to him. He came in not late for breakfast, and amused all the family by his fun and good humor. His mother, quite delighted, said to him, "'My little Pierre, you have no notion how humorous and clever you can be when you choose!' And he talked, putting things in a witty way, and making them laugh by ingenious hits at their friends. Bolsier was his butt, and Madame Rose-Mayille a little, but in a very judicious way, not too spiteful. And he thought, as he looked at his brother, "'Stand up for her, you muff! You may be as rich as you please. I can always eclipse you when I take the trouble.' As they drank their coffee, he said to his father, "'Are you going out to the pearl to-day?' "'No, my boy. May I have her with Jean-Bart? To be sure, as long as you like!' He bought a good cigar at the first tobacconists, and went down to the quay with a light step. He glanced up at the sky, which was clear and luminous, of a pale blue, freshly swept by the sea breeze. Papagry, the boatman, commonly called Jean-Bart, was dozing in the bottom of the boat, which he was required to have in readiness every day at noon, when they had not been out fishing in the morning. "'You and I together, mate,' cried Pierre. He went down the iron ladder of the quay, and leaped into the vessel. "'Which way is the wind?' he asked. "'Do we still, Monsieur Pierre? A fine breeze out at sea. Well then, old man, off we go!' They hoisted the foresail and weighed anchor, and the boat, feeling herself free, glided slowly down towards the jetty on the still water of the harbour. The breath of wind that came down the streets caught the top of the sail so lightly as to be imperceptible, and the pearl seemed endowed with life, the life of a vessel driven on by a mysterious latent power. Pierre took the tiller, and, holding his cigar between his teeth, he stretched his legs on the bunk, and with his eyes half shut in the blinding sunshine, he watched the great tarred timbers of the breakwater as they glided past. When they reached the open sea, round the nose of the North Pierre, which had sheltered them, the fresher breeze puffed in the doctor's face and on his hands, like a somewhat icy caress, filled his chest, which rose with a long sigh to drink it in, and swelling the tawny sail, tilted the pearl on her beam, and made her more lively. Jean Bart hastily hauled up the jib, and the triangle of canvas, full of wind, looked like a wing. Then, with two strides to the stern, he let out the spinnaker, which was close-reefed against his mast. Then, along the hull of the boat, which suddenly healed over and was running at top speed, there was a soft, crisp sound of water hissing and rushing past. The prow ripped up the sea like the share of a plough gone mad, and the yielding water it turned up curled over up and fell white with foam, as the plowed soil, heavy and brown, rolls and falls in a ridge. At each wave they met, and there was a short chopping sea, the pearl shivered from the point of the bowsprit to the rudder, which trembled under Pierre's hand. When the wind blew harder in gusts, the swell rose to the gunnel as if it would overflow into the boat. A coal-brig from Liverpool was lying at anchor, waiting for the tide. They made a sweep round her stern and went to look at each of the vessels in the roads one after another. Then they put further out to look at the unfolding line of coast. For three hours Pierre, easy, calm and happy, wandered to and fro over the dancing waters, guiding the thing of wood and canvas, which came and went at his will, under the pressure of his hand, as if it were a swift and docile winged creature. He was lost in daydreams, the dreams one has on horseback, or on the deck of a boat, thinking of his future, which should be brilliant, and the joys of living intelligently. On the morrow he would ask his brother to lend him fifteen hundred francs for three months, that he might settle at once in the pretty rooms on the boulevard François. Suddenly the sailor said, The fog is coming up, Monsieur Pierre, we must go in. He looked up and saw to the northward a grey shade, filmy but dense, blotting out the sky and covering the sea. It was sweeping down on them like a cloud fallen from above. He tacked for land and made for the pier, scutting before the wind, and followed by the flying fog, which gained upon them. When it reached the pearl, wrapping her in its intangible density, a cold shudder ran over Pierre's limbs, and a smell of smoke and mould, the peculiar smell of a sea fog, made him close his mouth that he might not taste the cold, wet vapor. By the time the boat was at her usual moorings in the harbour, the whole town was buried in this fine mist, which did not fall but yet wetted everything like rain, and glided and rolled along the roofs and streets like the flow of a river. Pierre, with his hands and feet frozen, made haste home, and threw himself on his bed to take a nap till dinnertime. When he made his appearance in the dining room, his mother was saying to Jean, The glass corridor will be lovely. We will fill it with flowers. You will see. I will undertake to care for them and renew them. When you give a party, the effect will be quite fairy-like. What in the world are you talking about? the doctor asked. Of a delightful apartment I have just taken for your brother. It is quite a find, an entre-saut looking out on two streets. There are two drawing-rooms, a glass passage, and a little circular dining- room, perfectly charming for a bachelor's quarters. Pierre turned pale. His anger seemed to press on his heart. Where is it? he asked. Boulevard-François. There was no possibility for doubt. He took his seat in such a state of exasperation that he longed to exclaim, This is really too much. Is there nothing for anyone but him? His mother, beaming, went on talking. And only fancy. I got it for two thousand eight hundred francs a year. They asked three thousand, but I got a reduction of two hundred francs on taking for three, six, or nine years. Your brother will be delightfully housed there. An elegant home is enough to make the fortune of a lawyer. It attracts clients, charms them, holds them fast, commands respect, and shows them that a man who lives in such good style expects a good price for his words. She was silent for a few seconds, and then went on. We must look out for something suitable for you, much less pretentious, since you have nothing but nice and pretty all the same. I assure you it will be to your advantage. Pierre replied contemptuously, For me? Oh, I shall make my way by hard work and learning. But his mother insisted. Yes, but I assure you that to be well lodged will be of use to you nevertheless. About half way through the meal he suddenly asked, How did you first come to know this man, Maréchal? Old Hollande looked up and racked his memory. Wait a bit. I scarcely recollect. It is such an old story now. Ah, yes, I remember. It was your mother who made the acquaintance with him in the shop. Was it not, Louise? He first came to order something, and then he called frequently. We knew him as a customer before we knew him as a friend. Pierre, who was eating beans, sticking his fork into them one by one as if he were splitting them, went on. And when was it that you made his acquaintance? Again Hollande sat thinking, but he could remember no more and appealed to his wife's better memory. In what year was it, Louise? You surely have not forgotten. You who remember everything. Let me see. It was in... in... in fifty-five or fifty-six? Try to remember. You ought to know better than I. She did, in fact, think it over for some minutes, and then replied in a steady voice and with calm decision. It was in fifty-eight, old man. Pierre was three years old. I am quite sure that I am not mistaken, for it was in that year that the child had scarlet fever, and Maréchal, whom we knew then but very little, was of the greatest service to us. Hollande exclaimed, To be sure, very true, he was really invaluable. When your mother was half-dead with fatigue, and I had to attend to the shop, he would go to the chemists to fetch your medicine. He really had the kindest heart, and when you were well again, you cannot think how glad he was and how he petted you. It was from that time that we became such great friends. And this thought rushed into Pierre's soul, as abrupt and violent as a cannon-ball, rending and piercing it. Since he knew me first, since he was so devoted to me, since he was so fond of me, and petted me so much, since I, I was the cause of his great intimacy with my parents, why did he leave all his money to my brother, and nothing to me? He asked no more questions, and remained gloomy, absent-minded rather than thoughtful, feeling in his soul a new anxiety as yet undefined, a secret germ of a new pain. He went out early, wandering about the streets once more. They were shrouded in the fog which made the night heavy, opaque, and nauseous. It was like a pestilential cloud dropped on the earth. It could be seen swirling past the gas-lights, which it seemed to put out at intervals. The pavement was as slippery as on a frosty night after rain, and all sorts of evil smells seemed to come up from the bowels of the houses. The stench of cellars, drains, sewers, squalid kitchens, to mingle with the horrible savor of this wandering fog. Pierre, with his shoulders up and his hands in his pockets, not caring to remain out of doors in the cold, turned into Morovskos. The druggist was asleep as usual under the gas-light, which kept the watch. On recognizing Pierre, for whom he had the affection of a faithful dog, he shook off his drowsiness, went for two glasses, and brought out the grossiette. Well, said the doctor, how is the liqueur getting on? The poll explained that four of the chief cafés in the town had agreed to have it on sale, and that two papers, the North Coast Faros and the Avra Semaphore, would advertise it, in return for certain chemical preparations to be supplied to the editors. After a long silence Morovskos asked whether Jean had come definitely into possession of his fortune, and then he put two or three other questions, vaguely referring to the same subject. His jealous devotion to Pierre rebelled against this preference, and Pierre felt as though he could hear him thinking. He guessed and understood, read in his averted eyes and in the hesitancy of his tone, the words which rose to his lips but were not spoken, which the druggist was too timid or too prudent and cautious to utter. At this moment he felt sure the old man was thinking. You ought not to have suffered him to accept this inheritance which will make people speak ill of your mother. Perhaps indeed Morovskos believed that Jean was Marochal's son. Of course he believed it. How could he help believing it when the thing must seem so possible, so probable, self-evident? Why, he himself, Pierre, her son, had not he been for these three days past fighting with all the subtlety at his command to cheat his reason, fighting against this hideous suspicion, and suddenly the need to be alone, to reflect, to discuss the matter with himself, to face boldly, without scruple or weakness, this possible but monstrous thing came upon him anew, and so imperative that he rose without even drinking his glass of Gossiette, shook hands with the astounded druggist and plunged out into the foggy streets again. He asked himself, what made this Marochal leave all his fortune to Jean? It was not jealousy now which made him dwell on this question, not the rather mean but natural envy which he knew lurked within him, and with which he had been struggling these three days. But the dread of an overpowering horror, the dread that he himself should believe that Jean, his brother, was that man's son. No, he did not believe it. He could not even ask himself the question which was a crime. Meanwhile, he must get rid of this faint suspicion, improbable as it was, utterly and forever. He craved for light, for certainty. He must win absolute security in his heart, for he loved no one in the world but his mother. And as he wandered alone through the darkness, he would rack his memory and his reason with a minute search that should bring out the blazing truth. Then there would be an end to the matter. He would not think of it again, never. He would go and sleep. He argued thus, let me see. Just to examine the facts, then I will recall all I know about him, his behavior to my brother and to me. I will seek out the causes which might have given rise to the preference. He knew Jean from his birth, yes, but he had known me first. If he had loved my mother silently, unselfishly, he would surely have chosen me, since it was through me, through my scarlet fever, that he became so intimate with my parents. Logically, then, he ought to have preferred me, to have had a keener affection for me, unless it were that he felt an instinctive attraction and predilection for my brother as he watched him grow up. Then, with desperate tension of brain and of all the powers of his intellect, he strove to reconstitute from memory the image of this Maréchal, to see him, to know him, to penetrate the man whom he had seen pass by him indifferent to his heart during all those years in Paris. But he perceived that the slight exertion of walking somewhat disturbed his ideas, dislocated their continuity, weakened their precision, clouded his recollection. To enable him to look at the past and at unknown events, with so keen an eye that nothing should escape it, he must be motionless in a vast and empty space. And he made up his mind to go and sit on the jetty as he had done that other night. As he approached the harbour, he heard out at sea a lugubrious and sinister wail like the bellowing of a bull, but more long drawn and steady. It was the roar of a foghorn, the cry of a ship lost in the fog. A shiver ran through him, chilling his heart, so deeply did this cry of distress thrill his soul in nerves that he felt as if he had uttered it himself. Another and a similar voice answered with such another moan. But farther away, then, close by, the foghorn on the pier gave out a fearful sound in answer. Pier made for the jetty with long steps, thinking no more of anything, content to walk on into this ominous and bellowing darkness. When he had seated himself at the end of the breakwater, he closed his eyes that he might not see the two electric lights now blurred by the fog, which made the harbour accessible at night, and the red glare of the light on the south pier, which was, however, scarcely visible. Turning half-round, he rested his elbows on the granite and hid his face in his hands. Though he did not pronounce the words with his lips, his mind kept repeating, Motteshal! Motteshal! As if to raise and challenge the shade. And on the black background of his closed eyelids, he suddenly saw him as he had known him, a man of about sixty, with a white beard cut in a point and very thick eyebrows, also white. He was neither tall nor short, his manner was pleasant, his eyes gray and soft, his movements gentle, his whole appearance that of a good fellow, simple and kindly. He called Pierre and Jean, my dear children, and had never seemed to prefer either, as asking them both together to dine with him. And then Pierre, with the pertenacity of a dog seeking a lost scent, tried to recall the words, gestures, tones, looks of this man who had vanished from the world. By degrees he saw him quite clearly in his rooms in the Loutranche, where he received his brother and himself at dinner. He was weighted on by two maids, both old women who had been in the habit, a very old one, no doubt, of saying Monsieur Pierre and Monsieur Jean. Marichal would hold out both hands, the right hand to one of the young men, the left to the other, as they happened to come in. How are you, my children? he would say. Have you any news of your parents? As for me, they never write to me. The talk was quiet and intimate, of commonplace matters. There was nothing remarkable in the man's mind, but much that was winning, charming, and gracious. He had certainly been a good friend to them, one of those good friends of whom we think the less because we feel sure of them. Now reminiscences came readily to Pierre's mind. Having seen him anxious from time to time, and suspecting his student's impecuniousness, Marichal had of his own accord offered and lent him money, a few hundred francs, perhaps, forgotten by both, and never repaid. Then this man must always have been fond of him, always have taken an interest in him, since he thought of his needs. Well then! Well then! Why leave his whole fortune to Jean? No, he had never shown more marked affection for the younger than for the elder, had never been more interested in one than in the other, never seemed to care more tenderly for this one or that one. Well then! Well then! He must have had some strong secret reason for leaving everything to Jean, everything, and nothing to Pierre. The more he thought, the more he recalled the past few years, the more extraordinary, the more incredible was it that he should have made such a difference between them. And an agonizing pang of unspeakable anguish piercing his bosom made his heart beat like a fluttering rag. Its springs seemed broken, and the blood rushed through in a flood unchecked, tossing it with wild surges. Then in an undertone, as a man speaks in a nightmare, he muttered, I must know, my God, I must know! He looked further back now, to an earlier time, when his parents had lived in Paris. But the faces escaped him, and this confused his recollections. He struggled above all to see Maréchal with light or brown or black hair. But he could not. The later image, his face as an old man, blotted out all others. However, he remembered that he had been sleighter and had a soft hand, and that he often brought flowers. Very often, for his father would constantly say, What? Another bouquet? But this is madness, my dear fellow, you will ruin yourself in roses. And Maréchal would say, No matter, I like it. And suddenly his mother's voice and accent, his mother's as she smiled and said, Thank you, my kind friend, flashed on his brain, so clearly that he could have believed he heard her. She must have spoken those words very often that they should remain thus graven on her son's memory. So Maréchal brought flowers, he, the gentleman, the rich man, the customer, to the humble shopkeeper, the jeweler's wife. Had he loved her? Why should he have made friends with these tradespeople if he had not been in love with the wife? He was a man of education and fairly refined tastes. How many a time had he discussed poets and poetry with Pierre? He did not appreciate these writers from an artistic point of view, but with sympathetic and responsive feeling. The doctor had often smiled at his emotions, which had struck him as rather silly. Now he plainly saw that this sentimental soul could never, never have been the friend of his father, who was so matter of fact, so narrow, so heavy, to whom the word poetry meant idiocy. This Maréchal, then, being young, free, rich, ready for any form of tenderness, went by chance into the shop one day, having perhaps observed its pretty mistress. He had bought something, had come again, had chatted more intimately each time, paying by frequent purchases for the right of a seed in the family, of smiling at the young wife and shaking hands with the husband. And what next? What next? Good God, what next? He had loved and petted the first child, the jeweller's child, till the second was born. Then, till death, he had remained impenetrable. And when his grave was closed, his flesh-dust, his name erased from the list of the living, when he himself was quiet and forever gone, having nothing to scheme for, to dread or to hide, he had given his whole fortune to the second child. Why? The man had all his wits. He must have understood and foreseen that he might, that he almost infallibly must, give grounds for the supposition that the child was his. He was casting obliquely on a woman. How could he have done this if Jean were not his son? And suddenly a clear and fearful recollection shot through his brain. Maréchal was fair, fair like Jean. He now remembered a little miniature portrait he had seen formerly in Paris, on the drawing-room chimney-shelf, and which had since disappeared. Where was it? Lost or hidden away? Oh, if he could have it in his hand for one minute! His mother kept it perhaps in the unconfessed draw where love tokens were treasured. His misery in this thought was so intense that he uttered a groan. One of those brief moans rung from the breast by a too intolerable pang. And immediately, as if it had heard him, as if it had understood and answered him, the foghorn on the pier bellowed out close to him. Its voice, like that of a fiendish monster, more resonant than thunder, a savage and appalling roar contrived to drown the clamor of the wind and waves, spread through the darkness, across the sea, which was invisible under its shroud of fog. And again, through the mist, far and near, responsive cries went up to the night. They were terrifying, these calls given forth by the great blind steamships. Then all was silent once more. Pierre had opened his eyes and was looking about him, startled to find himself here, roused from his nightmare. I am mad, thought he, I suspect my mother. And a surge of love and emotion, of repentance and prayer and grief, welled up in his heart. His mother, knowing her as he knew her, how could he ever have suspected her? Was not the soul, was not the life of this simple-minded, chaste and loyal woman clearer than water? Could anyone who had seen and known her ever think of her but as above suspicion? And he, her son, had doubted her. Oh, if he could but have taken her in his arms at that moment. How he would have kissed and caressed her, and gone on his knees to crave pardon? Would she have deceived his father? She? His father! A very worthy man, no doubt, upright and honest in business, but with a mind which had never gone beyond the horizon of his shop. How was it that this woman, who must have been very pretty, as he knew, and it could still be seen, gifted to, with a delicate, tender, emotional soul, would have accepted a man so unlike herself as a suitor and a husband? Why inquire? She had married, as young French girls do marry, the youth with a little fortune proposed to her by their relations. They had settled at once in their shop in the Rue Montmartre, and the young wife ruling over the desk, inspired by the feeling of a new home, and the subtle and sacred sense of interest in common which fills the place of love, and even of regard, by the domestic hearth of most of the commercial houses of Paris, had set to work with all her superior and active intelligence to make the fortune they hoped for, and so her life had flowed on, uniform, peaceful, and respectable, but loveless. Loveless? Was it possible, then, that a woman should not love? That a young and pretty woman living in Paris, reading books, plotting actresses for dying of passion on the stage, could live from youth to old age without once feeling her heart touched? He would not believe it of anyone else. Why should she be different from all others, though she was his mother? She had been young, with all the poetic weaknesses which agitate the heart of a young creature. Shut up, imprisoned in the shop, by the side of a vulgar husband who always talked of trade. She had dreamed of moonlight nights, of voyages, of kisses exchanged in the shades of evening, and then one day a man had come in, as lovers do in books, and had talked as they talk. She had loved him. Why not? She was his mother. What then? Must a man be blind and stupid to the point of rejecting evidence because it concerns his mother? But did she give herself to him? Why, yes, since this man had had no other love, since he had remained faithful to her when she was far away and growing old. Why, yes, since he had left all his fortune to his son, their son. And Pierre started to his feet, quivering with such rage that he longed to kill someone. With his arm outstretched, his hand wide open, he wanted to hit, to bruise, to smash, to strangle. Whom? Everyone. His father, his brother, the dead man. His mother. He hurried off homeward. What was he going to do? As he passed a turret close to the signal mast, the strident howl of the foghorn went off in his very face. He was so startled that he nearly fell and shrank back as far as the granite parapet. He sat down half stunned by the sudden shock. The steamer, which was the first to reply, seemed to be quite near and was already at the entrance, the tide having risen. Pierre turned round and could discern its red eye dim through the fog. Then, in the broad light of the electric lanterns, a huge black shadow crept up between the piers. Behind him the voice of the lookout man, the hoarse voice of an old retired sea-captain, shouted, What ship? And out of the fog, the voice of the pilot standing on deck, not less hoarse, replied, The Santa Lucia. From where? Italy. What port? Naples. And before Pierre's bewildered eyes rose, as he fancied, the fiery pen in a vissuvius, while at the foot of the volcano, Pierre flies danced in the orange groves of Sorrento or Castellamar. How often had he dreamed of these familiar names, as if he knew the scenery? Oh, if he might but go away, now at once, never mind wither, and never come back, never write, never let anyone know what had become of him. But no, he must go home, home to his father's house, and go to bed. Come what might he would not go in, he would stay there till daybreak. He liked the roar of the fog-horns. He pulled himself together, and began to walk up and down, like an officer on watch. Another vessel was coming in behind the other, huge and mysterious, an English-Indian man, homeward bound. He saw several more come in, one after another, out of the impenetrable vapor. Then, as the damp became quite intolerable, Pierre set out towards the town. He was so cold that he went into a sailor's tavern to drink a glass of grog, and when the hot and pungent liquor had scorched his mouth and throat, he felt a hope revive within him. Perhaps he was mistaken. He knew his bag of bond unreasoned so well. No doubt he was mistaken. He had piled up the evidence as a charge is drawn up against an innocent person, whom it is always so easy to convict when we wish to think him guilty. When he should have slept he would think differently. Then he went in and to bed, and by sheer force of will he at last dropped asleep. CHAPTER V of Pierre and Jean by Guy de Mopisson, translated by Clara Bell. This Librebox recording is in the public domain. But the doctor's frame lay scarcely more than an hour or two in the torpor of troubled slumbers. When he awoke in the darkness of his warm, closed room, even before thought was awake in him, of the painful oppression, the sickness of heart which the sorrow we have slept on leaves behind it. It is as though the disaster of which the shock merely jarred us at first, had, during sleep, stolen into our very flesh, bruising and exhausting it like a fever. Memory returned to him like a blow, and he sat up in bed. Then slowly, one by one, he again went through all the arguments which had wrung his heart on the jetty while the foghorns were bellowing. The more he thought, the less he doubted. He felt himself dragged along by his logic to the inevitable certainty as by a clutching, strangling hand. He was thirsty and hot, his heart beat wildly. He got up to open his window and breathed the fresh air, and as he stood there a low sound fell on his ear through the wall. Jean was sleeping peacefully and gently snoring. He could sleep. He had no presentiment, no suspicions. A man who had known their mother had left him all his fortune. He took the money and thought it quite fair and natural. He was sleeping, rich and contented, not knowing that his brother was gasping with anguish and distress, and rage boiled up in him against this heedless and happy sleeper. Only yesterday he would have knocked at his door, have gone in, and sitting by the bed would have said to Jean, scared by the sudden awakening, Jean, you must not keep this legacy which by tomorrow may have brought suspicion and dishonor on our mother. But today he could say nothing. He could not tell Jean that he did not believe him to be their father's son. Now he must guard, must bury the shame he had discovered, hide from every eye the stain which he had detected and which no one must perceive, not even his brother, especially not his brother. He no longer thought about the vain respect of public opinion. He would have been glad that all the world should accuse his mother if only he, he alone, knew her to be innocent. How could he bear to live with her every day, believing as he looked at her that his brother was the child of a stranger's love? And how calm and serene she was, nevertheless, how sure of herself she always seemed. Was it possible that such a woman as she, pure of soul and upright in heart, should fall, drag to stray by passion, and yet nothing ever appear afterward of her remorse and the stings of a troubled conscience? Ah, but remorse must have tortured her, long ago in the earlier days, and then have faded out as everything fades. She had surely bewailed her sin, and then, little by little, had almost forgotten it. Have not all women, all, this fault of prodigious forgetfulness which enables them after a few years, hardly to recognize the man to whose kisses they have given their lips? The kiss strikes like a thunderbolt, the love passes away like a storm, and then life, like the sky, is calm once more, and begins again as it was before. Do we ever remember a cloud? Pierre could no longer endure to stay in the room. This house, his father's house, crushed him. He felt the roof way on his head, and the walls suffocate him. And as he was very thirsty, he lighted his candle to go to drink a glass of fresh water from the filter in the kitchen. He went down the two flights of stairs, then, as he was coming up again with the water bottle filled, he sat down, in his night-shirt, on a step of the stairs where there was a draft, and drank, without a tumbler, in long pulls like a runner who is out of breath. When he ceased to move, the silence of the house touched his feelings. Then, one by one, he could distinguish the faintest sounds. First there was the ticking of the clock in the dining room, which seemed to grow louder every second. Then he heard another snore, an old man's snore, short, labored, and hard, his father beyond doubt. And he writhed at the idea, as if it had been but this moment sprung upon him, that these two men, sleeping under the same roof, father and son, were nothing to each other, not a tie, not the very slightest bound them together, and they did not know it. They spoke to each other affectionately, they embraced each other, they rejoiced and lamented together over the same things, just as if the same blood flowed in their veins. And two men, born at opposite ends of the earth, could not be more alien to each other than this father and son. They believed they loved each other, because a lie had grown up between them. This paternal love, this filial love, were the outcome of a lie, a lie which could not be unmasked, and which no one would ever know but he, the true son. But yet, but yet, if he were mistaken, how could he make sure? Oh, if only some likeness, however slight, could be traced between his father and Jean, one of those mysterious resemblances which run from an ancestor to the great-great-grandson, showing that the whole race are the offspring of the same embrace. To him, a medical man, so little would suffice to enable him to discern this, the curve of a nostril, the space between the eyes, the character of the teeth or hair, nay, less, the gesture, the trick, a habit, an inherited taste, any mark or token which a practised eye might recognise as characteristic. He thought long, but could remember nothing, no nothing, but he had looked carelessly, observed badly, having no reason for spying such imperceptible indications. He got up to go back to his room and mounted the stairs with a slow step, still lost in thought. As he passed the door of his brother's room, he stood stock still, his hand put out to open it. An imperative need had just come over him to see Jean at once, to look at him at his leisure, to surprise him in his sleep, while the calm countenance and relaxed features were at rest and all the grimace of life put off. Thus he must catch the dormant secret of his physiognomy, and if any appreciable likeness existed it would not escape him. But supposing Jean were to wake, what could he say? How could he explain this intrusion? He stood still, his fingers clenched on the door handle, trying to devise a reason, an excuse. Then he remembered that a week ago he had lent his brother a file of laudanum to relieve a fit of toothache. He might himself have been in pain this night and have come to find the drug, so he went in in a stealthy step, like a robber. Jean, his mouth open, was sunk in deep animal slumbers. His beard and fair hair made a golden patch on the white linen. He did not wake, but he ceased snoring. Pierre, leaning over him, gazed at him with hungry eagerness. No, this youngster was not in the least like Volant, and for the second time the recollection of this little portrait of Montuchel, which had vanished, recurred to his mind. He must find it. When he should see it, perhaps he should cease to doubt. His brother stirred, conscious no doubt of a presence, or disturbed by the light of the taper on his eyelids. The doctor retired on tiptoe to the door, which he noiselessly closed. Then he went back to his room, but not to bed again. Day was long in coming. The hours struck one after another on the dining-room clock, and its tone was a deep and solemn one, as though the little piece of clockwork had swallowed a cathedral bell. The sound rose through the empty staircase, penetrating through walls and doors, and dying away in the rooms where it fell on the torped ears of the sleeping household. Pierre had taken to walking to and fro between his bed and the window. What was he going to do? He was too much upset to spend this day at home. He wanted still to be alone, at any rate till the next day, to reflect, to compose himself, to strengthen himself for the common, everyday life which he must take up again. Well, he would go over to Truville, to see the swarming crowd on the sands. That would amuse him, change the air of his thoughts, and give him time to enure himself to the horrible thing he had discovered. As soon as morning dawned, he made his toilet and dressed. The fog had vanished and it was fine, very fine, as the boat for Truville did not start till nine, it struck the doctor that he must greet his mother before starting. He waited till the hour at which she was accustomed to get up, and then went downstairs. His heart beat so violently as he touched her door, that he paused for breath. His hand as it lay on the lock was limp and tremulous, almost incapable of the slight effort of turning the handle to open it. He knocked, his mother's voice inquired, Who is there? I, Pierre, what do you want? Only to say good morning, because I am going to spend the day at Truville with some friends. But I am still in bed. Very well, do not disturb yourself, I shall see you this evening when I come in. He hoped to get off without seeing her, without pressing on her cheek the false kiss which had made his heart sick to think of. But she replied, No, wait a moment, I will let you in. Wait till I get into bed again. He heard her bare feet on the floor and the sound of the bolt drawn back. Then she called out, Come in! He went in. She was sitting up in bed while, by her side, Roland, with a silk anchor-chief by way of nightcap and his face to the wall, still lay sleeping. Nothing ever woke him but a shaking hard enough to pull his arm off. On the days when he went fishing it was Josephine, rung up by Papagry at the hour fixed, who roused her master from his stubborn slumbers. Pierre, as he went towards his mother, looked at her with a sudden sense of never having seen her before. She held up her face, he kissed her cheek, and then sat down in a low chair. It was last evening that you decided on this excursion? She asked. Yes, last evening. Will you return to dinner? I do not know. At any rate, do not wait for me. He looked at her with stupefied curiosity. This woman was his mother. All those features seen daily from childhood, from the time when his eye could first distinguish things. That smile, that voice, so well known, so familiar, abruptly struck him as new, different from what they had always been to him hitherto. He understood now that, loving her, he had never looked at her. All the same it was really she, and he knew every little detail of her face. Still, it was the first time he clearly identified them all. His anxious attention, scrutinizing her face which he loved, recalled a difference, a physiognomy he had never before discerned. He rose to go, then suddenly yielding to the invincible longing to know which had been gnawing at him since yesterday, he said, By the way, I fancy I remember that you used to have, in Paris, a little portrait of Maréchal in the drawing room. She hesitated for a second or two, or at least he fancied she hesitated. Then she said, To be sure. What has become of the portrait? She might have replied more readily, That portrait? I don't exactly know. Perhaps it is in my desk. It would be kind of you to find it. Yes, I will look for it. What do you want it for? Oh, it is not for myself. I thought it would be a natural thing to give it to Jean, and that he would be pleased to have it. Yes, you are right. That is a good idea. I will look for it as soon as I am up. And he went out. It was a blue day without a breath of wind. The folks in the street seemed in good spirits, the merchants going to business, the clerks going to their office, the girls going to their shop. Some sang as they went, exhilarated by the bright weather. The passengers were already going on board the Truville boat. Pierre took a seat aft on a wooden bench. He asked himself, Now was she uneasy at my asking for the portrait, or only surprised? Has she mislated, or has she hidden it? Does she know where it is, or does she not? If she had hidden it, why? And his mind, still following up the same line of thought from one deduction to another, came to this conclusion. That portrait, of a friend, of a lover, had remained in the drawing room in a conspicuous place till one day when the wife and mother perceived, first of all, and before anyone else, that it bore a likeness to her son. Without doubt she had for a long time been on the watch for this resemblance. Then, having detected it, having noticed its beginnings, and understanding that anyone might, any day, observe it too, she had one evening removed the perilous little picture, and had hidden it, not daring to destroy it. Pierre recollected quite clearly now, that it was long, long before they left Paris, that the miniature had vanished. It had disappeared, he thought, about the time that Jean's beard was beginning to grow, which had made him suddenly and wonderfully like the fair young man who smiled from the picture frame. The motion of the boat, as it put off, disturbed and dissipated his meditations. He stood up and looked at the sea. The little steamer, once outside the pier, turned to the left, and puffing and snorting and quivering, made for a distant point visible through the morning haze. The red sail of a heavy fishing-bark, lying motionless on the level waters, looked like a large rock standing up out of the sea. And the scen, rolling down from Rouen, seemed a wide inlet dividing two neighboring lands. They reached the harbour of Chouville in less than an hour, and as it was the time of day when the world was bathing, Pierre went to the shore. From a distance it looked like a garden full of gaudy flowers, all along the stretch of yellow sand, from the pier as far as the Roche Noir, sunshades of every hue, hats of every shape, dresses of every color, in groups outside the bathing-huts, in long rows by the margin of the waves, or scattered here and there, really looked like immense bouquets on a vast meadow. And the babble of sounds, voices near and far, ringing thin in the light atmosphere, shouts and cries of children being bathed, clear laughter of women, all made a pleasant continuous din, mingling with the unheating breeze, and breathed with the air itself. Pierre walked among all this throng, more lost, more remote from them, more isolated, more drowned in his torturing thoughts than if he had been flung overboard from the deck of a ship a hundred miles from shore. He passed by them and heard a few sentences without listening, and he saw, without looking, how the men spoke to the women, and the women smiled at the men. Then suddenly, as if he had awoke, he perceived them all, and hatred of them all surged up in his soul, for they seemed happy and content. Now, as he went, he studied the groups, wandering round them full of a fresh set of ideas. All these many-hued dresses, which covered the sands like nosegays, were pretty stuffs, those showy parasols, the fictitious grace of tightened wastes, all the ingenious devices of fashion, from the smart little shoe to the extravagant hat, the seductive charm of gesture, voice and smile, all the coquettish airs in short, displayed on this seashore, suddenly struck him as stupendous efflorescences of female depravity. All these bedisoned women aimed at pleasing, bewitching, and deluding some man. They had dressed themselves out for men, for all men, all accepting the husband whom they no longer needed to conquer. They had dressed themselves out for the lover of yesterday and the lover of tomorrow, for the stranger they might meet and notice or were perhaps on the lookout for. And these men, sitting close to them, eye to eye and mouth to mouth, invited them, desired them, hunted them like game, coy and elusive notwithstanding, that it seemed so near and so easy to capture. This wide shore was, then, no more than a love market, where some sold, others gave themselves, some drove a hard bargain for their kisses, while others promised them for love. All these women thought only of one thing, to make their bodies desirable, bodies already given, sold or promised to other men, and he reflected that it was everywhere the same, all the world over. His mother had done what others did, that was all. Others? These women he saw about him, rich, giddy, love-seeking, belonged on the whole to the class of fashionable and showy women of the world, some indeed to the less respectable sisterhood, for on these sands, trampled by the legion of idlers, the tribe of virtuous homekeeping women were not to be seen. The tide was rising, driving the foremost rank of visitors gradually landward. He saw the various groups jump up and fly, carrying their chairs with them, before the yellow waves as they rolled up, edged with a lace-like frill of foam. The bathing machines, too, were being pulled up by horses, and along the planked way, which formed the promenade running along the shore from end to end, there was now an increasing flow, slow and dense, of well-dressed people in two opposite streams, elbowing and mingling. Pierre, made nervous and exasperated by this bustle, made his escape into the town, and went to get his breakfast at a modest tavern on the skirts of the fields. When he had finished with coffee, he stretched his legs on a couple of chairs under a lime tree in front of the house, and as he had hardly slept the night before, he presently fell into a dose. After resting for some hours he shook himself, and finding that it was time to go on board again, he set out, tormented by a sudden stiffness which had come upon him during his long nap. Now he was eager to be at home again, to know whether his mother had found the portrait of Maréchal. Would she be the first to speak of it, or would he be obliged to ask for it again? If she waited to be questioned further, it must be because she had some secret reason for not showing the miniature. But when he was at home again, and in his room, he hesitated about going down to dinner. He was too wretched. His revolted soul had not yet time to calm down. However, he made up his mind to it, and appeared in the dining-room just as they were sitting down. All their faces were beaming. Well, said Romain, are you getting on with your purchases? I do not want to see anything till it is all in its place. And his wife replied, Oh yes, we are getting on, but it takes much consideration to avoid buying things that do not match. The furniture question is an absorbing one. She had spent the day in going with Jean to cabinet makers and upholsterers. Her fancy was for rich materials, rather splendid to strike the eye at once. Her son, on the contrary, wished for something simple and elegant. So in front of everything put before them, they had each repeated their arguments. She declared that a client, a defendant, must be impressed, that as soon as he is shown into his council's waiting-room, he should have a sense of wealth. Jean, on the other hand, wishing to attract only an elegant and opulent class, was anxious to captivate persons of refinement by his quiet and perfect taste. And this discussion, which had gone on all day, began again with the soup. Volant had no opinion. He repeated, I do not want to hear anything about it. I will go and see it when it is all finished. Madame Volant appealed to the judgment of her elder son. And you, Pierre, what do you think of the matter? His nerves were in a state of such intense excitement that he would have liked to reply with an oath. However, he only answered in a dry tone, quivering with annoyance. Oh, I am quite of Jean's mind. I like nothing so well as simplicity, which, in matters of taste, is equivalent to rectitude in matters of conduct. His mother went on. You must remember that we live in a city of commercial men, where good taste is not to be met with at every turn. Pierre replied. What does that matter? Is that a reason for living as fools do? If my fellow townsmen are stupid and ill-bred, need I follow their example? A woman does not misconduct herself because a neighbor has a lover. Jean began to laugh. You argue by comparisons would seem to have been borrowed from the maxims of a moralist. Pierre made no reply. His mother and his brother reverted to the question of stuffs and armchairs. He sat looking at them as he had looked at his mother in the morning before starting for Truville, looked at them as a stranger who would study them, and he felt as though he had really suddenly come into a family of which he knew nothing. His father, above all, amazed his eyes and his mind. That flabby, burly man, happy and besotted, was his own father. No, no, Jean was not in the least like him. His family. Within these two days, an unknown and malignant hand, the hand of a dead man, had torn a sunder and broken, one by one, all the ties which had held these four human beings together. It was all over, all ruined. He had now no mother, for he could no longer love her, now that he could not revere her with that perfect, tender and pious respect which a son's love demands. No brother, since his brother was the child of a stranger. Nothing was left him but his father, that coarse man whom he could not love in spite of himself. And he suddenly broke out. I say, mother, have you found that portrait? She opened her eyes in surprise. What portrait? The portrait of Montéchal. No, that is to say, yes, I have not found it, but I think I know where it is. What is that? asked Golan, and Pierre answered. A little likeness of Montéchal which used to be in the dining room in Paris. I thought that John might be glad to have it. Golan exclaimed, Why yes, to be sure. I remember it perfectly. I saw it again last week. Your mother found it in her desk when she was tidying the papers. It was on Thursday or Friday. Do you remember, Louise? I was shaving myself when you took it out and laid it on a chair by your side with a pile of letters of which you burned half. Strange, isn't it, that you should have come across the portrait only two or three days before Jean heard of his legacy? If I believed in presentiments, I should think that this was one. Madame Golan calmly replied, Yes, I know where it is. I will fetch it presently. Then she had lied. When she had said that very morning to her son, who had asked her what had become of the miniature, I don't exactly know, perhaps it is in my desk. It was a lie. She had seen it, touched it, handled it, gazed at it, but a few days since, and then she had hidden it away again in the secret drawer with those letters, his letters. Pierre looked at the mother who had lied to him, looked at her with the concentrated fury of a son who had been cheated, robbed of his most sacred affection, and with the jealous wrath of a man who, after long being blind, at last discovers a disgraceful betrayal. If he had been that woman's husband, and not her child, he would have gripped her by the wrists, seized her by the shoulders or the hair, have flung her on the ground, have hit her, hurt her, crushed her. And he might say nothing, do nothing, show nothing, reveal nothing. He was her son, he had no vengeance to take, and he had not been deceived. Nay, but she had deceived his tenderness, his pious respect. She owed to him to be without reproach as all mothers owe it to their children. If the fury that boiled within him verged on hatred, it was that he felt her to be even more guilty towards him than toward his father. The love of man and wife is a voluntary compact in which the one who proves weak is guilty only of perfidy. But when the wife is a mother, her duty is a higher one, since nature has entrusted her with a race. If she fails, then she is cowardly, worthless, infamous. I do not care, said Hollande suddenly, stretching out his legs under the table, as he did every evening while he sipped his glass of black current brandy. You may do worse than live idle when you have a snug little income. I hope Jean will have us to dinner in style now. Hang it all. If I have indigestion now and then, I cannot help it." Then, turning to his wife, he added, Go and fetch that portrait, little woman, as you have done your dinner. I should like to see it again myself. She rose, took a taper, and went. Then, after an absence which Pierre thought long, though she was not away more than three minutes, Madame Hollande returned smiling and holding an old-fashioned guilt-frame by the ring. Here it is, she said, I found it at once. The doctor was the first to put forth his hand. He took the picture, and holding it a little away from him, he examined it. Then, fully aware that his mother was looking at him, he slowly raised his eyes and fixed them on his brother to compare the faces. He could hardly refrain, in his violence, from saying, Dear me, how like Jean! And though he dared not utter the terrible words, he betrayed his thought by his manner of comparing the living face with the painted one. They had, no doubt, details in common, the same beard, the same brow, but nothing sufficiently marked to justify the assertion, This is the father and that the son. It was rather a family likeness, a relationship of physiognomies in which the same blood courses. But what to Pierre was far more decisive than the common aspect of the faces was that his mother had risen, had turned her back, and was pretending too deliberately to be putting the sugar-basin and the liqueur bottle away in a cupboard. She understood that he knew, or at any rate had, his suspicions. Hand it to me, said Roin. Pierre held out the miniature, and his father drew the candle towards him to see it better. Then he murmured in a pathetic tone. Poor fellow! To think that he was like that when we first knew him. Creasty! How time flies! He was a good-looking man, too, in those days, and with such a pleasant manner, was he not, Louise? As his wife made no answer, he went on. And what an even temper! I never saw him put out, and now it is all at an end. Nothing left of him but what he bequeathed to Jean. Well, at any rate, you may take your oath that that man was a good and faithful friend to the last. Even on his deathbed he did not forget us. Jean, in his turn, held out his hand for the picture. He gazed at it for a few minutes, and then said regretfully, I do not recognize it at all. I only remember him with white hair. He returned the miniature to his mother. She cast a hasty glance at it, looking away as if she were frightened. Then, in her usual voice, she said, It belongs to you now, my little Jean, as you are his heir. We will take it to your new rooms. And when they went into the drawing-room, she placed the picture on the chimney shelf by the clock, where it had formerly stood. Roland filled his pipe. Pierre and Jean lighted cigarettes. They commonly smoked them. Pierre, while he paced the room, Jean sunk in a deep armchair with his legs crossed. Their father always sat astride a chair, and spat from afar into the fireplace. Madame Roland, on a low seat by a little table on which the lamp stood, embroidered or knitted, or marked linen. This evening she was beginning a piece of worsted work, intended for Jean's lodgings. It was a difficult and complicated pattern, and required all her attention. Still, now and again, her eye, which was counting the stitches, glanced up swiftly and furtively at the little portrait of the dead as it leaned against the clock, and the doctor, who was striding to and fro across the room in four or five steps, met his mother's look at each turn. It was as though they were spying on each other, and acute uneasiness, intolerable to be born, clutched at Pierre's heart. He was saying to himself, at once tortured and glad, she must be in misery at this moment if she knows that I guess. In each time he reached the fireplace, he stuffed for a few seconds to look at Maréchal's fair hair, and show quite plainly that he was haunted by a fixed idea, so that this little portrait, smaller than an opened palm, was like a living being, malignant and threatening, suddenly brought into this house and this family. Presently the street doorbell rang. Madame Roland, always so self-possessed, started violently, betraying to her doctor's son the anguish of her nerves. Then she said, It must be Madame Rosemey, and her eye again anxiously turned to the mantel shelf. Pierre understood, or thought he understood, her fears and misery. A woman's eye is keen, a woman's wit is nimble, and her instincts suspicious. When this woman who was coming in should see the miniature of a man she did not know, she might perhaps at the first glance discover the likeness between this face and Jean. Then she would know and understand everything. He was seized with dread, a sudden and horrible dread of this shame being unveiled, and turning about just as the door opened, he took the little painting and slipped it under the clock without being seen by his father and brother. When he met his mother's eyes again, they seemed to him altered, dim and haggard. Good evening, said Madame Rosemey, I have come to ask you for a cup of tea. But while they were bustling about her and asking after her health, Pierre made off, the door having been left open. When his absence was perceived, they were all surprised. Jean, annoyed for the young widow, who, he thought, would be hurt, muttered, What a bear! Madame Roland replied, You must not be vexed with him. He is not very well today and tired with his excursion and trouvile. Never mind, said Roland. That is no reason for taking himself off like a savage. Madame Rosemey tried to smooth matters by saying, Not at all, not at all. He has gone away in the English fashion. People always disappear in that way in fashionable circles if they want to leave early. Oh, in fashionable circles, I dare say, replied Jean. But a man does not treat his family all on glaze, and my brother has done nothing else for some time past. Jean, with his mother's help, was furnishing and settling himself. Pierre, very gloomy, never was seen except at mealtimes. His father, having asked him one evening, Why the deuce do you always come in with a face as cheerful as a funeral? This is not the first time I have remarked it. The fact is, I am terribly conscious of the burden of life. The old man did not have a notion what he meant, and with an aggrieved look he went on. It really is too bad, ever since we had the good luck to come into this legacy, everyone seems on how to make a living out of it. It is not a good thing to do. It is not a good thing to do. It is not a good thing to do. It is not a good thing to do. It is a good thing to do. In this legacy, everyone seems unhappy. It is as though some accident has befallen us as if we were in mourning for someone. I am in mourning for someone, said Pierre. You are? For whom? For someone you never knew, and of whom I was too fond. Volant imagined that his son alluded to some girl with whom he had had some love passages, and he said, A woman, I suppose? Yes, a woman. Dead? No, worse, ruined. Ah! Though he was startled by this unexpected confidence, in his wife's presence too, and by his son's strange tone about it, the old man made no further inquiries, for in his opinion such affairs did not concern a third person. Madame Volant affected not to hear. She seemed ill and was very pale. Several times already her husband, surprised to see her, sit down as if she were dropping into her chair, and to hear her gasp as if she could not draw her breath, had said, Really, Louise, you look very ill. You tire yourself too much with helping Jean. Give yourself a little rest. Sacresty! The rascal is in no hurry, as he is a rich man. She shook her head without a word. But today her pallor was so great that Volant remarked on it again. Come, come, said he, this will not do at all, my dear old woman, you must take care of yourself. Then addressing his son, you surely must see that your mother is ill. Have you questioned her at any rate? Pierre replied, No, I had not noticed that there was anything to matter with her. At this Volant was angry. But it stares you in the face, confound you. What on earth is the good of your being a doctor, if you cannot even see that your mother is out of sorts? Why, look at her, just look at her. Really, a man might die under his very eyes, and this doctor would never think there was anything to matter. Madame Volant was panting for breath, and so white that her husband exclaimed, She is going to faint. No, no, it is nothing. I shall get better directly. It is nothing. Pierre had gone up to her and was looking at her steadily. What ails you, said he, and she repeated in an undertone. Nothing, nothing! I assure you, nothing. Volant had gone to fetch some vinegar. He now returned, and handing the bottle to his son, he said, Here, do something to ease her. Have you felt her heart? As Pierre bent over to feel her pulse, she pulled away her hand so vehemently that she struck it against a chair which was standing by. Come, said he in icy tones, let me see what I can do for you, as you are ill. Then she raised her arm and held it out to him. Her skin was burning, the blood throbbing in short irregular leaps. You are certainly ill, he murmured. You must take something to quiet you. I will write you a prescription. And as he wrote, stooping over the paper, a low sound of choked sighs, smothered, quick breathing and suppressed sobs, made him suddenly look round at her. She was weeping, her hands covering her face. Volant, quite distracted, asked her, Louise, Louise, what is the matter with you? What on earth ails you? She did not answer, but seemed wracked by some deep dreadful grief. Her husband tried to take her hands from her face, but she resisted him, repeating, No, no, no! He appealed to his son. But what is the matter with her? I never saw her like this. It is nothing, said Pierre. She is a little hysterical. And he felt as if it were a comfort to him to see her suffering thus, as if this anguish mitigated his resentment and diminished his mother's load of opromrium. He looked at her as a judge satisfied with his day's work. Suddenly she rose, rushed to the door with such a swift impulse that it was impossible to forestall or to stop her, and ran off to lock herself into her room. Volant and the doctor were left face to face. Can you make head or tail of it? said the father. Oh, yes, said the other. It is a little nervous disturbance, not alarming or surprising. Such attacks may very likely recur from time to time. They did in fact recur almost every day, and Pierre seemed to bring them on with a word, as if he had the clue to her strange and new disorder. He would discern in her face a lucid interval of peace, and with the willingness of a torturer would, with a word, revive the anguish that had been lulled for a moment. But he too was suffering as cruelly as she. It was dreadfully pain to him that he could no longer love her nor respect her, that he must put her on the rack. When he had laid bare the bleeding wound which he had opened in her woman's, her mother's heart, when he felt how wretched and desperate she was, he would go out alone, wander about the town, so torn by remorse, so broken by pity, so grieved to have thus hammered her with his scorn as her son, that he longed to fling himself into the sea, and put an end to it all by drowning himself. Ah! how gladly now would he have forgiven her! But he could not, for he was incapable of forgetting. If only he could have desisted from making her suffer. But this again he could not, suffering as he did himself. He went home to his meals, full of relenting resolutions. Then, as soon as he saw her, as soon as he met her eye, formerly so clear and frank, now so evasive, frightened and bewildered, he struck at her in spite of himself, unable to suppress the treacherous words which would rise to his lips. This disgraceful secret, known to them alone, goaded him up against her. It was as a poison flowing in his veins and giving him an impulse to bite like a mad dog. And there was no one in the way now to hinder his reading her. Jean lived almost entirely in his new apartments, and only came home to dinner and sleep every night at his father's. He frequently observed his brother's bitterness and violence, and attributed them to jealousy. He promised himself that some day he would teach him his place and give him a lesson, for life at home was becoming very painful as a result of these constant scenes. But as he now lived apart, he suffered less from this brutal conduct, and his love of peace prompted him to patience. His good fortune, too, had burned his head, and he scarcely paused to think of anything which had no direct interest for himself. He would come in full of fresh little anxieties, full of the cut of a morning coat, of the shape of a felt hat, of the proper size for his visiting cards. And he talked incessantly of all the details of his house, the shelves fixed in his bedroom, cupboard to keep linen on, the pegs to be put up in the entrance hall, the electric bells contrived to visit visitors to his lodgings. It had been settled that on the day when he should take up his abode there, they should make an excursion to Saint-Joy, and return after dining there, to drink tea in his rooms. Hollong wanted to go by water, but the distance and the uncertainty of reaching it in a sailing boat, if there should be a headwind, made them reject his plan, and a break was hired for the day. They set out at ten to get there to breakfast. The dusty high road lay across the plain of Normandy, which by its gentle undulations, dotted with farms, embowered in trees, wears the aspect of an endless park. In the vehicle, as it jogged on at the slow trot of a pair of heavy horses, sat the four Hollong's, Madame Rosmy, and Captain Bossier, all silent, deafened by the rumble of the wheels, and with their eyes shut to keep out the clouds of dust. It was harvest time, alternating with the dark hue of clover and the raw green of beetroot, the yellow corn lighted up the landscape with gleams of pale gold. The fields looked as if they had drunk in the sunshine which poured down on them. Here and there the reapers were at work, and in the plots where the scythe had been put in, the men might be seen seesawing as they swept the level soil with the broad wing-shaped blade. After a two-hours drive, the break turned off to the left, passed a windmill at work, a melancholy, grey wreck, half rotten and doomed, the last survivor of its ancient race. Then it went on into a pretty in-yard, and drew up at the door of a smart little house, a hostelry famous in those parts. The mistress, well known as La Belle Alfoncine, came smiling to the threshold, and held out her hand to the two ladies who hesitated to take the high step. Some strangers were already at breakfast under a tent by a grass-plot shaded by apple trees, Parisians who had come from Etreta, and from the house came sounds of voices, laughter and the clatter of plates and pans. They were to eat in a room as the outer dining halls were all full. Roland suddenly caught sight of some stripping nets hanging against the wall. Ah-ha! cried he. You catch prawns here? Yes, replied Bocière. Indeed it is the place on all the coast where most are taken. First rate! Suppose we try to catch some after breakfast. As it happened it would be low tide at three o'clock, so it was settled that they should all spend the afternoon among the rocks, hunting prawns. They made a light breakfast, as a precaution against the tendency of blood to the head when they should have their feet in the water. They also wished to reserve an appetite for dinner, which had been ordered on a grand scale, and to be ready at six o'clock when they came in. Roland could not sit still for impatience. He wanted to buy the nets specially constructed for fishing prawns, not unlike those used for catching butterflies in the country. Their name on the French coast is Lanets. They are netted bags on a circular wooden frame at the end of a long pole. Alphonseen, still smiling, was happy to lend them. Then she helped the two ladies to make an impromptu change of toilet so as not to spoil their dresses. She offered them skirts, coarse-worsted stockings, and hemp shoes. The men took off their socks and went to the shoemakers to buy wooden shoes instead. Then they set out the nets over their shoulders and creals on their backs. Madame Rosemey was very sweet in this costume, with an unexpected charm of contrived audacity. The skirt which Alphonseen had lent her coquettishly tucked up and firmly stitched so as to allow of her running and jumping fearlessly on the rocks, displayed her ankle and lower calf, the firm calf of a strong and agile little woman. Her dress was loose to give freedom to her movements, and to cover her head she had found an enormous garden hat, of course, yellow straw, with an extravagantly broad brim. And to this a bunch of tamarisk pinned into cocket on one side gave a very dashing and military effect. Jean, since he had come into his fortune, had asked himself every day whether or no he should marry her. Each time he saw her he made up his mind to ask her to be his wife, and then, as soon as he was alone again, he considered that by waiting he would have time to reflect. She was now less rich than he, for she had but twelve thousand francs a year, but it was in real estate, in farms and lands near the docks in Alphonseen, and this by and by might be worth a great deal. Their fortunes were thus approximately equal, and certainly the young woman attracted him greatly. As he watched her walking in front of him that day, he said to himself, I really must decide. I cannot do better. I am sure. They went down a little ravine, sloping from the village to the cliff, and the cliff, at the end of this comb, rose about eighty metres above the sea. Framed between the green slopes to the right and left, a great triangle of silvery blue water could be seen in the distance, and a sail, scarcely visible, looked like an insect out there. The sky, pale with light, was so merged into one with the water that it was impossible to see where one ended and the other began, and the two women, walking in front of the men, stood out against the bright background, their shapes clearly defined in their closely fitting dresses. Jean, with a sparkle in his eye, watched the smart ankle, the neat leg, the supple waist, and the coquettish broad hat of Madame Rosmeille as they fled away from him, and this flight fired his ardour, urging him on to the sudden determination which comes to hesitating and timid natures. The warm air, fragrant with sea-coast odours, gorse, clover and thyme, mingled with the salt smell of the rocks at low tide, excited him still more, mounting to his brain, and every moment he felt a little more determined at every step, at every glance he cast at the alert figure. He made up his mind to delay no longer, to tell her that he loved her and hoped to marry her. The prawn-fishing would favour him by affording him an opportunity, and it would be a pretty scene, too, a pretty spot for love-making, their feet in a pool of limpid water, while they watched the long feelers of the shrimps lurking under the rack. When they had reached the end of the comb and the edge of the cliff, they saw a little footpath slanting down the face of it, and below them, about half way between the sea and the foot of the precipice, an amazing chaos of enormous boulders tumbled over and piled one above the other on a sort of grassy and undulating plain, which extended as far as they could see to the southward, formed by an ancient landslip. On this long shelf of brushwood and grass, disrupted, as it seemed, by the shocks of a volcano, the fallen rocks seemed the wreck of a great ruined city which had once looked out on the ocean, sheltered by the long white wall of the overhanging cliff. "'That is fine,' exclaimed Madame Rosmy, standing still. Jean had come up with her, and with a beating heart offered his hand to help her down the narrow steps cut in the rock. They went on in front, while Beaucere, squaring himself on his little legs, gave his arm to Madame Roland, who felt giddy at the gulf before her. Roland and Pierre came last, and the doctor had to drag his father down, for his brain reeled so that he could only slip down sitting, from step to step. The two young people, who led the way, went fast till on a sudden they saw, by the side of a wooden bench which afforded a resting place about half way down the slope, a thread of clear water springing from a crevice in the cliff. It fell into a hollow as large as a washing-basin which it had worn in the stone. Then, falling in a cascade, hardly two feet high, it trickled across the footpath which it had carpeted with creses, and was lost among the briars and grass on the raised shelf where the boulders were piled. "'Oh, I am so thirsty,' cried Madame Rosmy. But how could she drink? She tried to catch the water in her hand, but it slipped away between her fingers. Jean had an idea. He placed a stone on the path, and on this she knelt down to put her lips to the spring itself, which was thus on the same level. When she raised her head, covered with myriads of tiny drops, sprinkled all over her face, her hair, her eyelashes, and her dress, Jean bent over her and murmured, "'How pretty you look!' She answered in the tone in which she might have scolded a child. Will you be quiet?' These were the first words of flirtation they had ever exchanged. "'Come,' said Jean, much agitated, let us go on before they come up with us. For, in fact, they could see quite near them now, Captain Bossiere, as he came down, backward, so as to give both hands to Madame Roland, and further up, further off, Roland still letting himself slip, lowering himself on his hams, and clinging on with his hands and elbows at the speed of a tortoise, Pierre keeping in front of him to watch his movements. The path, now less steep, was here almost a road, zigzagging between the huge rocks which had at some former time rolled from the hilltop. Madame Rosmey and Jean set off at a run, and they were soon on the beach. They crossed it and saw rocks, which stretched in a long and flat expanse covered with seaweed, and broken by endless gleaming pools. The ebbed waters lay beyond, very far away, across this plain of slimy weed, of a black and shining olive green. Jean rolled up his trousers above his calf, and his sleeves to his elbows, that he might get wet without caring. Then, saying, forward, he leaped boldly into the first tide-pool they came to. The lady, more cautious, though fully intending to go in, too, presently, made her way round the little pond, stepping timidly, for she slipped on the grassy weed. Do you see anything? she asked. Yes, I see your face reflected in the water. If that is all you see, you will not have good fishing. He murmured tenderly in reply. Of all fishing it is that I should like best to succeed in. She laughed. Try, you will see how it will slip through your net. But yet, if you will, I will see you catch prawns and nothing else for the moment. You are cruel. Let us go a little farther, there are none here. He gave her his hand to steady her on the slippery rocks. She leaned on him rather timidly, and he suddenly felt himself overpowered by love and insurgent with passion, as if the fever that had been incubating in him had waited till today to declare its presence. They soon came to a deeper rift, in which long slender weeds, fantastically tinted, like floating green and rose-coloured hair, were swaying under the quivering water as it trickled off to the distant sea through some invisible crevice. Madame Rosemey cried out, Look, look, I see one, a big one, a very big one, just there. He saw it, too, and stepped boldly into the pool, though he got wet up to the waist. But the creature, waving its long whiskers, gently retired in front of the net. Jean drove it towards the seaweed, making sure of his prey. When it found itself blockaded, it rose with a dart over the net, shot across the mirror, and was gone. The young woman, who was watching the chase in great excitement, could not help exclaiming, Oh, clumsy! He was vexed, and without a moment's thought dragged his net over a hole full of weed. As he brought it to the surface again, he saw in it three large transparent prawns caught blindfold in their hiding place. He offered them in triumph to Madame Rosemey, who was afraid to touch them for fear of the sharp, serrated crest which arms their heads. However, she made up her mind to it, and taking them up by the tip of their long whiskers, she dropped them one by one into her creel, with a little seaweed to keep them alive. Then, having found a shallower pool of water, she stepped in with some experimentation, for the cold plunge of her feet took her breath away and began to fish on her own account. She was dexterous and artful, with the light hand and the hunter's instinct which are indispensable. At almost every dip she brought up some prawns, beguiled and surprised by her ingeniously gentle pursuit. Jean now caught nothing, but he followed her step by step, touched her now and again, bent over her, pretended great distress at his own awkwardness, and besought her to teach him. Show me, he kept saying, show me how. And then, as their two faces were reflected side by side in water, so clear that the black weeds at the bottom made a mirror, Jean smiled at the face which looked up at him from the depth, and now and then, from his fingertips, blew at a kiss which seemed to light upon it. Oh, how tiresome you are! she exclaimed. My dear fellow, you should never do two things at once. He replied, I am only doing one, loving you. She drew herself up and said gravely, What has come over you these ten minutes? Have you lost your wits? No, I have not lost my wits. I love you, and at last I dare to tell you so. They were, at this moment, both standing in the salt pool, wet, half way up to their knees, and with dripping hands, holding their nets. They looked into each other's eyes. She went on in a tone of amused annoyance. How very ill-advised to tell me here and now! Could you not wait till another day, instead of spoiling my fishing? Forgive me, he murmured, but I could not longer hold my peace. I had you a long time. Today you have intoxicated me, and I lost my reason. Then suddenly she seemed to have resigned herself to talk business and think no more of pleasure. Let us sit down on that stone, said she. We can talk more comfortably. They scrambled up a rather high boulder, and when they had settled themselves side by side in the bright sunshine, she began again. My good friend, you are no longer a child, and I am not a young girl. We both know perfectly well what we are about, and we can weigh the consequences of our actions. If you have made up your mind to make love to me today, I must naturally infer that you wish to marry me." He was not prepared for this matter-of-fact statement of the case, and he answered blandly, Why, yes. Have you mentioned it to your father and mother? No, I wanted to know first whether you would accept me. She held out her hand, which was still wet, and as he eagerly clasped it. I am ready and willing, she said. I believe you to be kind and true-hearted, but remember I should not like to displease your parents. Oh, do you think that my mother has never foreseen it, or that she would not be as fond of you as she is if she did not hope that you and I should marry? That is true. I am a little disturbed. They said no more. He, for his part, was amazed at her being so little disturbed, so rational. He had expected pretty little flirting ways, refusals, which meant, yes, the whole coquettish comedy of love checkered by prawn-fishing in the splashing water. And it was all over. He was pledged, married with twenty words. They had no more to say about it, since they were agreed, and they now sat, both somewhat embarrassed by what had so swiftly passed between them. A little perplexed indeed, not daring to speak, not daring to fish, not knowing what to do. Bola's voice rescued them. This way, this way, children, come and watch Bossiere. The fellow is positively clearing out the sea. The captain had, in fact, had a wonderful haul. Went above his hips, he waited from pool to pool, recognizing the likeliest spots at a glance, and searching all the hollows hidden under seaweed with a steady, slow sweep of his net. And the beautiful, transparent, sandy gray prawns skipped in his palm as he picked them out of the net with a dry jerk, and put them into his creel. Madame Rosemey, surprised and delighted, remained at his side, almost forgetful of her promise to Jean, who followed them in a dream, giving herself up entirely to the childish enjoyment of pulling the creatures out from among the waving seagrasses. Roland suddenly exclaimed, Ah, here comes Madame Roland to join us. She had remained at first on the beach with Pierre, for they had neither of them any wish to play at running about among the rocks and paddling in the tide-pools, and yet they had felt doubtful about staying together. She was afraid of him, and her son was afraid of her and of himself, afraid of his own cruelty which he could not control. But they sat down side by side on the stones, and both of them, under the heat of the sun, mitigated by the sea breeze, gazing at the wide, fair horizon of blue water, streaked and shot with silver, thought as if in unison. How delightful this would have been once! She did not venture to speak to Pierre, knowing that he would return some hard answer, and he dared not address his mother, knowing that in spite of himself he should speak violently. He sat twitching the water-worm pebbles with the end of his cane, switching them and turning them over. She, with a vague look in her eyes, had picked up three or four little stones and was slowly and mechanically dropping them from one hand into the other. Then her unsettled gaze, wandering over the scene before her, discerned among the weedy rocks her son Jean fishing with Madame Rosemille. She looked at them, watching their movements, dimly understanding, with motherly instinct, that they were talking as they did not talk every day. She saw them leaning over side by side when they looked into the water, standing face to face when they questioned their hearts, then scrambling up the rock and seated themselves to come to an understanding. Their figures stood out very sharply, looking as if they were alone in the middle of the wide horizon and assuming a sort of symbolic dignity in that vast expanse of sky and sea and cliff. Pierre, too, was looking at them, and a harsh laugh suddenly broke from his lips. Without turning to him, Madame Roland said, What is it? he spoke with a sneer. I am learning, learning how a man lays himself out to be cousined by his wife. She flushed with rage, exasperated by the insinuation she believed was intended. In whose name do you say that? In Jean's, by heaven, it is immensely funny to see those two. She murmured in a low voice, tremulous with feeling, Oh Pierre, how cruel you are! That woman is honesty itself. Your brother could not find it better. He laughed aloud, a hard satirical laugh. Ha, ha, ha! Honesty itself! All wives are honesty itself, and all husbands are betrayed. And he shouted with laughter. She made no reply, but Rose hastily went down the sloping beach and at the risk of tumbling into one of the rifts hidden by the seaweed, of breaking a leg or an arm, she hastened, almost running, plunging through the pools without looking, straight to her other son. Seeing her approach Jean called out, Well mother, so you have made the effort? Without a word she seized him by the arm as if to say, Save me, protect me. He saw her agitation and greatly surprised he said, How pale you are! What is the matter? She stammered out. I was nearly falling. I was frightened at the rocks. So then Jean guided her, supported her, explained the sport to her that she might take an interest in it. But as she scarcely heated him and as he was bursting with the desire to confide in someone, he led her away and in a low voice said to her, Guess what I have done. But what? I don't know. Guess. I cannot. I don't know. Well, I have told Madame Rosemey that I wish to marry her. She did not answer, for her brain was buzzing, her mind in such distress that she could scarcely take it in. She echoed, Marry her? Yes, I have done well. She is charming. Do not you think? Yes, charming. You have done very well. Then you approve. Yes, I approve. But how strangely you say so! I could fancy that you are not glad. Yes, indeed, I am. Very glad. Really and truly? Really and truly? And to prove it she threw her arms round him and kissed him heartily, with warm motherly kisses. Then, when she had wiped her eyes, which were full of tears, she observed upon the beach a man lying flat at full length like a dead body, his face hidden against the stones. It was the other one, Pierre, sunk in thought and desperation. At this she led her little Jean farther away, quite to the edge of the waves, and there they talked for a long time of this marriage of which he had set his heart. The rising tide drove them back to rejoin the fishers, and then they all made their way to the shore. They roused Pierre, who pretended to be sleeping, and then came a long dinner washed down with many kinds of wine.