ï
 
 THl imUAKÏ
 
 A rJBRARY OF FRENCH MASTFRPIKCKS 
 
 KDITKI) liY I'.D.MUN'I) (iOSSK, LL.I). 
 With roRiRAir - No i ks iiy Ociavk Uzanne
 
 Iksi I'c.'umf coH/uùnj Thtct' 
 Coloured Pl/ttfs after 
 It'atfr-tehur Orarrings by 
 H/'\KI' Dt-I.ASPRF.
 
 \/y^^ C^^P ^*^^
 
 KNGLISII KDiriON 
 
 A I/iHRAkY OF French MAsri:KiMi:ci:s 
 KDITKI) BY KDMUNI) GOSSK 
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE 
 FRENCH OF 
 
 Guy de Maupassant 
 
 WITH A CRITICAL INTRODUCTION BY 
 
 THE EARL OF CREWE 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY 
 
 HENRY DELASPRE 
 
 London : Tfie London Book Co. mcmvii.
 
 
 GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 In the long portrait-gallery of men of letters 
 there are many figures, including some of the most 
 famous, which in one aspect, at any rate, have 
 baffled the analysis of countless critics. The rela- 
 tion between the training of these writers and 
 their art, between the lives they led and the work 
 they did, between their surroundings and their 
 message, remains untraced and obscure despite 
 every effort of loving or malicious research. Thus, 
 above all others, it is with Shakespeare ; and thus 
 it would remain if every fact of his daily existence 
 were known to us. Thus, in differing degrees and 
 for various reasons, it is with Cervantes and Swift, 
 with Keats and with Heine. Others, on the con- 
 trary, stand out clearly as the best product of the 
 particular set of circumstances grouped about their 
 lives. They seem to be the finished result of a 
 given up-bringing, of a precise tutelage, and of a 
 chosen career. Of tiiis second category Guy de 
 Maupassant is a singularly complete example.
 
 Guy de Maupassant 
 
 Any dinicully in classifyin*^ his genius, or in csti- 
 inatinnllu' pcrnunu-ncy ol liis fanu\ arises fmni no 
 mystery enshrouding; his life or his \vori<.. The 
 cvohition of each is absolutely slraighlforward and 
 coherent : he traversed no " caverns measureless to 
 man " on his wav to the sunless sea which engulfed 
 liim at last. Through his single volume of verse, 
 through his six novels, through the multitude of 
 his short stories and fcuillclous, the succeeding 
 phases of a not very eventful life can be inierringly 
 traced, like the j)ath of an explorer on a map. 
 There are glimpses of his boyhood at Etretat and 
 Yvetot, of his school-days at Rouen, of his brief 
 service as a volunteer in 1870, of his clerkship at 
 a public department in Paris. Then, still trace- 
 able in the stories, came a spell of life in the capi- 
 tal, first in a small lettered society, later in a wider 
 circle of acquaintance. From time to time there 
 was a little travel, quite insuflîcient to free him 
 from national limitations, a great deal of rowing 
 and sailing, and a taste of fashion on the Riviera. 
 This was all ; and amid the astonishing variety of 
 incident found in his stories he never passed t)Ut- 
 side these simjjle bounds. Other great writers, 
 though not many, have refrained from describing 
 what they have not themselves seen. Except for 
 a few rather unsuccessful excursions into the 
 
 vi
 
 Guy de Maupassant 
 
 SLipcrnalural and I lie uimatuial, Maupassant very 
 rarely touched any class of j)crsuns, or any order 
 of subjects, wliieh lie did not know to the core. 
 Whenever he broke (his iide, his hand somewhat 
 lost its cunning- ; he was completely at home only 
 when he moulded and remoulded for the purposes 
 of his art every fragmeiit of personal experience, 
 every scrap of conhrmatory information and illus- 
 tration. There were not many tints on his palette ; 
 but he blended them almost to perfection. 
 
 The form in which these experiences were 
 given to the world was regulated by the bent of a 
 strong animal nature, by early association with a 
 peculiar rural society, and by his intimacy with 
 Gustave Flaubert. Never perhaps in the history 
 of letters did the relation of master and disciple 
 dovetail more nicely than between Flaubert and 
 Maupassant. It was not the outcome of a casual 
 enthusiasm on one side, or of a blind favouritism 
 on the other, but the development of an old family 
 friendship into a close intellectual bond. Gama- 
 liel's yoke was not easy. For six years, steadily 
 guiding Maupassant's course of study, and criti- 
 cising its results, he forbade the publication of a 
 single line. As his pupil had written verses furi- 
 ously from the age of thirteen at latest, and did 
 not publish a volume till he was thirty, Flaubert's 
 
 vii
 
 Guv de Maupassant 
 
 curb was lit^litly aj)j)liril. lUil Maupassant never 
 ceased to be grateful to r irréprochable viaîtrc que 
 fadmire avajit lous* and it is i)rctty evident that 
 tlie elder man's literary inlluence was exercised 
 almost entirely for good. 
 
 As a matter of course, Maupassant first tried 
 his wings in verse. Flaubert, when recommend- 
 inff Z)t's Vers to the iroud offices of his own 
 publisher, wrote, " His verses are not tiresome, 
 which is the prime consideration for the public, 
 and he really is a poet, without any stars and 
 dicky-birds." There certainly are no stars, and 
 prudish readers might complain that there is a 
 certain amount of mud. One or two of the poems 
 merely celebrate facile amours : Fin d'amour and 
 La dcrnicrc escapade are feuilletons in rhyme : 
 Propos de rues is a sort of Iloratian dialogue, and 
 Venus Rustique, the most ambitious attemj)t, for 
 which Flaubert had a word of praise, possesses 
 some of the eerieness of Baudelaire, and might 
 not have been disclaimed by Mr. Swinburne or 
 Arthur O'Shaughnessy. But in the same year 
 1880, the plant which had been so long maturing, 
 and which had been so rigidly pruned, bore its first 
 real fruit in its true form of prose. The incom- 
 parable Boule de suif, which appeared with Zola's 
 
 * Dedication to Dts Vers, 
 
 viii
 
 Guy de Maupassant 
 
 Attaque du Mouli)i and ollicr episodes of the war 
 by different hands in a volume styled Les Soirées 
 de Medan, was at once hailed by tiie author of 
 Madame Bovary as a veritable master-piece, in a 
 verdict which nobody has wished to disj)ute. 
 
 Eight years later, in his well-known preface to 
 Pierre et Jean, Maupassant expounded his oj)in- 
 ions on the writing of stories. It is a somewhat 
 ragged piece of criticism in itself, but necessarily 
 interesting, and demands a word here. What, he 
 asks, arc the set rules for writing a novel ? The 
 answer is simple : there are no such rules. A 
 story can only be a personal conception, trans- 
 figured by its author into his personal realisation 
 of a work of art. As Mr. Kipling puts it : 
 
 " There are nine and sixty ways of constructing tribal lays, 
 And every single one of them is right! " 
 
 The artist, then, says Maupassant, is in a sense 
 the slave of his personality ; he must write as he 
 can, not as he would. Romantic or realist, he 
 must follow his bent. The goal, therefore, of 
 training such as Maupassant's own is not the at- 
 tainment of an absolutely best method, but the 
 discovery of the special subject and the scheme of 
 treatment which are most in harmony with the 
 writer's mind. As Louis Bouilhet, another early 
 
 ix
 
 Ciiv cic Maupassant 
 
 adviser, used lo remind Iiini, an output of a luin- 
 drcd lines is enoui^h to stamj) a man as an artist, 
 if tlu'V are (Jic luindied wliicli e.\i)ifss his essence 
 of originality. Hut if no rules exist, is there no 
 preferable j)lan of writini^? Ves, Maujxissant re- 
 jilies, there is. The "objective" method on the 
 whole gives the hapi)iest results, when the writer, 
 having formed his jirivate conception of a charac- 
 ter, decides what action is the inevitable result, in 
 a given situation, of that character's state of mind. 
 On the other hand, the analytical writer j)ure and 
 simple, who sets himself to explain li'Jiy his char- 
 acter acts as he does, is brought uj) short, so to 
 speak, by his ego, which forbids him to do more 
 than guess at the working of a mind alien to his 
 own. Thus, by the exercise of intense and un- 
 tiring observation it is possible to conclude liow a 
 man of well-defined general type, such as a strong 
 sensualist, a weak amourist, an ascetic, will probably 
 act in the situation created for liim. But since no 
 writer can hiii"is>lf be all these three men, his 
 analysis will often be at fault when he attempts to 
 trace the mental processes of his opposite. 
 
 Nevertheless Maupassant admitted that admi- 
 rable work might be done on these lines — as indeed 
 on many others; and though most of his writing 
 was based on objectivity (a dreadful word, as he 
 
 X
 
 Guy de Maupassant 
 
 says), ho hy no means neglected the formal analysis 
 of character. Pierre ct Jean itself is to a great 
 extent a psychological story ; A^otre Cœur is 
 nothing else, and one or two of the short sketches, 
 such as L Inutile beauté, arc designed on a similar 
 principle. 
 
 Maupassant no doubt believed that the " objec- 
 tive " novel found its best modern expression in 
 Madame Bovary, \\rA\. unforgettable work which, 
 like the Lyrical Ballads and IVaverley, lives by the 
 double title of intrinsic merit and of the interest 
 attaching to a literary revolution. Flaubert pointed 
 out the road. Maupassant rarely quitted it ; but 
 his claim to be numbered among great writers is 
 enforced by the fact that from the first he never 
 slavishly imitated his master's gait, or paused, so 
 to speak, at the same wayside inns. Of the six 
 novels, the first, U-ne Vie, which appeared in 1^83, 
 naturally shows the most direct stamp of Flau- 
 bert's influence, in its gray pessimism and its uni- 
 formity of background. It is the life-history of a 
 girl belonging to tXic petite noblesse, the only child 
 of kind and rather foolish parents, married early to 
 a worthless vicomte, who turns out to be a stingy 
 profligate. After a very brief love-dream she finds 
 herself deceived and outraged, and is tragically left 
 a widow with one son. This child of tears proves 
 
 xi
 
 Guy de Maupassant 
 
 as weak and reckless as his fallu, r, beiii^ extravagant 
 besides. The book ends K avinir Jianne, the nuicli- 
 tried iieroine, realizing an afterglow c>f tiiiderncss 
 in the care of his child hy a di\ul mistress who lias 
 robbed her of his love and helped iiim to ruin the 
 old liome. It would be dilTicult to name a more 
 depressing book, but the whole workmanshij) is 
 admirable, the local colour is faultless, and the 
 characters are alive. The only blol on the story, 
 as a story, is the vengeance of a rather melodra- 
 matic husband on the vicoDitc, by machinery which 
 Maupassant borrowed from an early short story of 
 his own, and which is scarcely worthy of him. 
 Une Vic is not htted for what is called family- 
 reading, but it is difficult to sec why the Biblio- 
 thhjuc des CJiemins de Fer should have refused to 
 sell it in a country where the extravagances of M. 
 Catulle Mendès and M. Octave Mirbeau can be 
 had for the asking. A boycott of this kind is, 
 however, an excellent advertisement, as Flaubert 
 found in the case of Madame Bovary, though a 
 threatened prosecution of Maupassant, on account 
 of some verses printed in a country newspaper, 
 might have had graver consequences, owing to 
 their author's officiai position. 
 
 Three of the remaining novels treat of different 
 phases of life in Paris. Bel- Ami depicts the glorious 
 
 xii
 
 Guy de Maupassant 
 
 ascent of M. Georges Duroy, scamp, coward, liar, 
 and blackmailer, from ancien sous-ojf. of hussars 
 to courted journalist and bridegroom of an heiress. 
 Fort comme La Mort and Notre Cccur are concerned 
 with a quieter society in the capital. The scene of 
 Pierre et Jean, in some ways the most perfect 
 of his writings, is laid at Havre ; while Afont-Oriol, 
 a very clever and observant story, which yet dis- 
 plays here and there a certain flagging in Maupas- 
 sant's wonderful gift of amusement, dissects the 
 heart of M. Andermatt's wife, and the fmancial 
 operations of M. Andermatt himself in creating 
 his new watering-place in Auvergne. 
 
 Remarkable as the novels are, both in style 
 and construction, the popular estimate is probably 
 not far wrong when it attaches even greater im- 
 portance to the short stories. It would be untrue 
 to say of Maupassant, as might be said of two very 
 distinguished living writers, English and American,* 
 that his genius, so far as prose is concerned, found 
 in the short story its only outlet for dramatic ex- 
 pression. But the fact remains that while some of 
 his contemporaries produced novels of a class cer- 
 tainly equal, and some might say superior, to his, 
 in the briefer form of composition he was unap- 
 proached. These stories were collected from time 
 
 * Mr, Bret Harte died while this volume was in the press. 
 
 xiii
 
 Guy de Maupassant 
 
 to time l)ct\vcen iSSi and 1S90 in sixteen volumes, 
 which include, however, a few duplicates. Since 
 his death one or two more have apjiearcd, contain- 
 ing, with some fresii matter, interesting early drafts 
 of sketches afterward worked uj), or used as ej)i- 
 sodes in the Ioniser hooks. 
 
 The tales divide liiemselvcs into two distinct 
 classes, short stories, properly so called, and sketches 
 and feuilletons. Of the short stories Boitle de 
 Suif was the first, and not the least striking. 
 Something must be said later of Maupassant's 
 choice of subjects, but setting this aside, it may be 
 questioned if fifty pages were ever more cleverly 
 filled. The economy and clearness of description, 
 tiie sharp characterization, the whimsical pathos 
 and the scorching satire, place this first-fruit of 
 genius almost above criticism. It is hardly neces- 
 sary to repeat that it is a late episode of the War of 
 1870, from which no Frenchman or Frenchwoman 
 emerges with credit, except for such left-handed 
 honours as attach to the poor heroine. It says 
 much for the French sense of humour, that irony 
 which so ingeniously pierces all classes in civil life 
 was not only forgiven but enjoyed. 
 
 The list also includes La Afaisoji Tellier, with 
 its extraordinary theme, its roistering humour, 
 and its strange touches of humanity ; L Heritage^ 
 
 xiv
 
 Guy de Maupassant 
 
 the outcome of Maupassant's official career, a mas- 
 ter-piece of irony and portraiture ; Y'vctlc, a rather 
 brutal story, which would have fared better in the 
 hands of Alphonse Daudet ; and Monsieur Parent, 
 a most masterly study of middle-class infidelity in 
 Paris. All these exhil)it niucii of their author's 
 very finest work. Never did he "find hiniself" 
 more completely ; the tool fitted exactly to his 
 hand, and the material shaped itself at his biddinj^. 
 It is impossible here to attempt any formal 
 classification of Maupassant's other stories, which 
 are of all lengths from eight or ten pages, and 
 even less. But in discussing their character, it 
 is convenient to group them in a rough arrange- 
 ment. Foremost, as inspired with perhaps the 
 most enduring quality, come the Norman tales of 
 farm and peasant life. Maupassant's annexation 
 of the province is as complete as Mr. Hardy's 
 of Wessex. Himself sprung from a race of 
 Norman squires, it happened that his mother 
 follow^ed with particular interest the simple, if 
 often eccentric, annals of their humbler com- 
 patriots, and never tired of discussing them with 
 her son. He was something of a sportsman, 
 too ; and in France shooting brings different 
 classes into closer contact than it does here. Thus 
 equipped, he produced some twenty tales, chiefly 
 
 XV
 
 Ciiiy de Maupassant 
 
 "objective," foiuulcd on the nicest observai ion and 
 saturated wiili local ftclin^-. Their li^id tnilli is 
 tliat of an alVidavil; there is no extenuation and no 
 malice ; the shrewdness, the parsimony, the sordid 
 brutality, the simjilicity, the faithful devotion of 
 his dilTerent types are recorded with unsjxiring 
 frankness, and without the slightest attempt to 
 point a moral. Such portraits as those of the 
 adopted son in y///.r CJuiDips, of the supplanted 
 child in Lc Pire Aniablc, of Ilautot Pire et Fils, 
 stick closely to the memory. The story of the 
 Fillc dc Ferme is not unworthy of Turgenev. 
 Such studies of manners as Farce Norviande, Le 
 Baptcmc, and the very characteristic La JÏIartinc 
 speak for themselves with their spacious breezi- 
 ncss, and their fidelity to fact, which, like that of 
 the great Russian novelists, convinces those who 
 have no means of testing it. It is a great merit, 
 too (would that some of our writers on maios de 
 provùice could claim it !), that the dialect, depend- 
 ing largely on astounding elisions, is neither so 
 frequent nor so obscure as to puzzle or distract 
 the reader. The following excerpt from La Mar- 
 tine is typical. It describes the awakening of a 
 rustic lover. Benoist had known La Martine all 
 his life, but only realized her charms one Sunday 
 morning, walking home from church. 
 
 xvi
 
 Guy de Maupassant 
 
 " 'Nom d'uji 7107)1,' lie said to himself, 'that's a 
 pretty girl all the same, La Marline' lie watched 
 her walking, all at once beginning U> admire her, 
 and struck with a sort of longing, lie had no 
 need to see her face again — no. lie kept his eyes 
 fixed on her figure, repeating to himself, as though 
 speaking aloud, 'Nom d' uii 7U))/i, that's a pretty 
 girl.' . . . \Vhen he reached home, dinner was on 
 the table. He sat down opposite his mother, be- 
 tween the labourer and the farm-lad, while the 
 maid went to draw the cider. He ate a few 
 spoonfuls of broth, then pushed his plate away. 
 His mother asked, * Have you anything the mat- 
 ter?'* 'No,' he answered, 'it's a turning-like 
 in the stomach, which stops me fancying my 
 victuals.' He watched the others eating, cutting 
 from time to time a mouthful of bread, which 
 he carried slowly to his lips, and went on chew- 
 ing. He thought of La Martine, , . . 'all the 
 same, that's a pretty girl.' And to think that he 
 never noticed it before, and now it came on him 
 like that, all of a sudden, and so upset him that 
 he could not eat. He hardly touched the stew. 
 ' Come, Benoist,' said his mother, ' make yourself 
 eat a bit;-)- it's off the neck of mutton; it'll do 
 you good. When you've no fancy to eat, you 
 
 * C'est-i que t'es indispos ? f Efforce le un p'iieu. 
 
 xvii
 
 Guy (Je Maupassant 
 
 must make \()ursill'.' Ile swdllowctl a mouthful 
 or two, iIk'u pushed his philc away again. No, 
 it wouldn't go down, no mistake about it. When 
 dinner was over, lie went for a walk on the farm, 
 and gave the lad a holiday, saying he would shift 
 the beasts as he passed. On this day of rest the 
 landseapc was emjity. Here antl tluie in a clovcr- 
 heKl the eows la\' heavily slrelehed on their bel- 
 lies, chewing the cud, in the full glare of the sun. 
 Ploughs, without their teams, wailed on the head- 
 land, and the upturned soil, ready for sowing, spread 
 large brown scjuarcs amid the yellow fields where 
 the stubble of tiic lately reaped oat and wheat 
 harvest was now rotting. A rather dry autumn 
 wind passed over the plain, foretelling a cool 
 evening after sundown. Benoist sat on a dike, 
 set his hat on his knees, as though needing the 
 breeze on his forehead, and repeated out loud, in 
 the silence of the country, 'That's a pretty girl, 
 if ever there was one.' " 
 
 The slow process of the human ruminant 
 could hardly be presented with greater simplicity 
 and directness. 
 
 It is a rather singular fact that so far as Mau- 
 passant is popularly known in England, he is 
 specially quoted as a master of the horrible and 
 grotesque, a sort of b^rench Edgar Poc. This 
 
 xviii
 
 Guy de Maupassant 
 
 belief, which sccins to drjx-iid on a single story, 
 Lc I/orld, is curiously ill-foumkd, and must be 
 disproved. Maupassant only wrote f(jur or five 
 supernatural stories, and nine or ten relating to 
 crime ; and it may safely be said that except two 
 powerful sketches, Lc Vagabond and Lc Diable, 
 none of them rank among his best work. The 
 vampire talc of Lc Iforla gained a quite factitious 
 notoriety through its supposed bearing on the at- 
 tack of general paralysis which so tragically closed 
 its author's career. But on the testimony of his 
 mother,* Maupassant was perfectly well and cheer- 
 ful wlien he wrote Lc L lor la. In any case it is 
 not a very alarming fantasy, and it belongs 
 rather to a class of semi-pathological studies, of 
 which a word \\\\\ be said later. La Pcîc7' has 
 some good moments, especially when the ghost 
 of the slain poacher is believed to be prowling 
 round the lonely forest-lodge, and the keepers, 
 the bravest of men as a rule, are half-maddened 
 with terror. L'Auberge, an Alpine scene, is a com- 
 monplace story enough. In fact, whether the sub- 
 ject relates to crime or to the unseen, we miss the 
 deep authentic thrill which distinguishes such mas- 
 ter-pieces of horror as Ufulc Silas or Mr. Henry 
 James' appalling Turn of tJic Scrczu. Little need 
 
 * A. Brisson, Portraits Intimes, 4th Series, p. 63. 
 xi>c
 
 Guy de Maupassant 
 
 be said of otlicr stories which arc really i^atholop^i- 
 cal studies, such as Qui Sait ? which treats of a 
 madnian's grotesque illusion ; L'n Cas de Divorce^ 
 and one or two more of the same sort. La Petite 
 Roque, a longer tale, describes the atrocious crime 
 of a jireviously rei)utal)le citizen, and contains at 
 least one jiowerful sitiialion. Hut the fact is that 
 tiie grisly shapes which haunt the debatable land 
 between the kingdoms of A'^ice and Crime and 
 Madness can hardly be focused for purposes of 
 artistic fiction. People curious in such arcana 
 will be better advised to collect facts from "the 
 intelligent police officer" in charge of an actual 
 case, and pathology from a Charcot or a Crichton- 
 Browne. Lc I^'ou, whicli relates how a venerable 
 judge was in reality a homicitlal maniac, guilty of 
 countless untraced murders, is only remarkable as 
 affording perhaps the sole instance in which Mau- 
 passant, intending to be impressive, is positively 
 ridiculous. Still the false notes are few, and this 
 branch of the subject would have needed little 
 notice, but for the accident of its undue promi- 
 nence in this country, which is unjust to a great 
 artist. 
 
 In his few war-sketches, and scenes of military 
 life, Maupassant never again approached the ex- 
 cellence of lioulc de Suif. The episode of Walter 
 
 XX
 
 Guy de Maupassant 
 
 Schnaiïs, the Prussian prisoner, is humorous and 
 two-edged ; l)ut some more sombre stories of rus- 
 tic vcngcanec on the invader, such as La Mire 
 Sauvac;i\ are rather strained and melodramatic in 
 idea and handUng. 
 
 The longest category, almost of course, includes 
 stories concerned with love, or at any rate with 
 sex. They are of every variety, scattered uncon- 
 ncctedly through the different volumes. Many 
 are mere feuilletons, clever specimens of the ordi- 
 nary Parisian pattern. Others, like Lc Papa de 
 Simon and L 'Infirme, are delicate and altogether 
 attractive pastels. There are deep notes of tragedy, 
 as in Un Fils and the terrible La Femme de Paul. 
 One or two, such as L Ermite, and its counterpart 
 Le Port, are outside the scope of art, and should 
 join the erotomaniac monstrosities in a limbo of 
 oblivion. But with these exceptions, or even 
 without them, there is no story, however poor in 
 substance or trivial in purpose, which does not 
 exhibit Maupassant's wondrous deftness of touch 
 and his genius for identification. Just as in the 
 Norman series one shrewd stingy old farmer 
 differs essentially from another, so these light 
 ladies and Decameron-like lovers are no two of 
 them cut from the same pattern. " When you 
 pass a concierge smoking his pipe," said Flaubert, 
 
 xxi
 
 (iuv de Maupassant 
 
 " show him to im- in liis own nttitiuii' and com- 
 pli'tc- j)hvsical aspect — wliich, hy tlic skill of your 
 presentation, will at the same time indicate his 
 wliole moral nature — so that T mav not confound 
 him with any otlier concicrc^c in the world." These 
 observation-lessons were well learned, and became 
 at last a second nature to the younger novelist. 
 
 In a critical survey of Maupassant's work it is 
 impossible altoirethcr to avoid mention of his atti- 
 tude towards womankind and his handlin<j^ of sex- 
 relations. Without plun^inLi: i'lto the eternal de- 
 bate upon the deference due from art to morality, 
 it is at any rate plausibly contended that a work 
 of art may legitimately deal with subjects and 
 problems of almost every kind, provided that they 
 form an essential part of its main scheme, but not 
 otherwise. The highest artists have touched many 
 subjects unsuited to general discussion — even 
 Southey, one of the Galahads of letters, asserted 
 that "all the greatest of poets have had a spice of 
 Pantagruelism in their composition, which I verily 
 believe was essential to their greatness." On the 
 other hand, impropriety, as a mere fringe or adorn- 
 ment to a work of art, is inadmissible. It remains 
 to note how far Maupassant stands this not very 
 puritanical test. Much of his best work bears it 
 fairly ; where there is grossncss, it inheres in the 
 
 xxii
 
 Guy de Maupassant 
 
 subject. If Jhiulc de Suif IkkI Ixcn a jihiin aii<l 
 respectable daily govcnuss, if La Maison Tcllicr 
 had !)cen a well-conducted drapery establishment, 
 if the legacy in IJ Ilérilui^c had depended on official 
 promotion, it would have been a wiser world, but 
 these particular stories could n(;t have been writ- 
 ten. This is an artistic if not an ethical justifica- 
 tion for their existence, and is all their author 
 would have claimed. In Fort coniuic La Mort 
 Olivier Bertin falls madly in love with the daughter 
 of the woman whose lover he had been. The book 
 is a haunting tragedy,* and is saved from offence 
 by the gravity with which the dreadful dilemma is 
 approached, and by the device of leaving the girl 
 in ignorance throughout. Sophocles, after all, 
 trod on still more questionable ground, and his 
 works have not, as yet, been seized by the police. 
 At the same time it would be affectation to pre- 
 tend that Maupassant never disports himself out- 
 side even these liberal bounds. Some of the 
 shorter stories are no (\ouht grïvoïs and very little 
 else. It is an explanation, if not an excuse, that 
 these were mostly written in haste, as pot-boilers ; 
 and a Paris pot-boiler is likely to be deflected from 
 the path of austerity. The truth is that Maupas- 
 
 * M. Paul Rourgct has treated the same subject with exquisite 
 skill in Le Fantôme. 
 
 xxiii
 
 Guy de Maupassant 
 
 sant's allituclc as a wriicr luwanls ilic whole ques- 
 tion is, as always, the outeonn- of iiis personality. 
 There have been writers far less lax than their 
 books, and others far less restrained ; he himself 
 was the gaillard exubérant, sensuel, violent, soulevé 
 par tous les désirs, described in his essay ; and he 
 had no idea of doings violence to his nature. For 
 however little his point of view may be coinmcnd- 
 ed, it is at least absolutely natural. It lias nothing 
 in common with the leering salacities which dis- 
 figure the pages of many less virile writers ; it is 
 rather a manifestation of the esprit gaulois, akin 
 to the Rabelaisian naturalisme, the cult of Physis, 
 and having something in common with the prodi- 
 galities of Whitman. To Maupassant the exist- 
 ence of sex was almost the prime and paramount 
 fact in the world. It beset his mind with a per- 
 petual appeal, and therefore inevitably strikes the 
 dominant note in his books. There is an odd 
 simplicity, sometimes almost ludicrous, in his 
 frank commiseration for those who by inclination 
 or circumstance live otherwise. To him an elderly 
 maiden aunt is a far more piteous spectacle than a 
 blind beggar, for the latter, before he was a beggar 
 and blind, may have known the joys of la noee, 
 whereas the poor lady is past praying for. The 
 fate of the vieille fille so haunts him that he can 
 
 xxiv
 
 Guy de Maupassant 
 
 find no other comparison for the sterile and lonely 
 moon, which has inspired so many. Those to 
 whom this diathesis is distasteful nuist read some- 
 thing else ; in summarizing it, one is tempted to 
 parody De Quincey's famous topsy-turvy dom, and 
 to represent Maupassant as seriously warning the 
 world that a man may begin by merely murdering 
 a lawless couple in the interests of morality, but 
 may proceed to a crusade on behalf of public de- 
 corum, and end by lapsing into the lowest depths 
 of continence and celibacy. Of course a creed 
 such as this could not fail to leave one side of life 
 incomprehensible to him. An ascetic passion, the 
 glow of renunciation, a maiden purity not based 
 on ignorance, lay beyond the scope of his imagi- 
 nation, and all his admiration for a greater than 
 himself, Turgenev, could never have enabled him 
 to create a Hélène or a Lisaveta Michailovna. 
 Very different from these tender Russian master- 
 pieces is Notre Cœur, a study of the human heart 
 in the conventional sense of the word, and per- 
 haps the most mature and careful of Maupassant's 
 novels. André Mariolle, its leading gentleman, for 
 hero he shall not be called, is that least attractive 
 of creatures, a sentimental sensualist. The story 
 of three hundred pages is entirely devoted to the 
 relations between him and the fascinating: widow 
 
 't5 
 
 XXV
 
 Cuv (le Maupassant 
 
 Madame de Burne. The lady's eharacler is drawn 
 with ainaziiiLT insiL,dit and consisteney. Slie is a 
 perfect egoist, who yet dt'itends on affection for 
 her joy of living ; a creature incapable of passion, 
 who yet submits to the tedium of encouraging 
 passion in another sooner than lose him. Mariollc 
 falls an easy victim, owing to his woeful inexperi- 
 ence from the Maupassant standpoint : ''Son esprit 
 inquiet . . . l'avait préservé des passions. Quel- 
 ques intrigues, deux courtes liaisons mortes dans 
 rennui, et des amours payées rompues par dej^oiU, 
 rien de plus dans r histoire de son âmei' Ile is but 
 a child in these matters. Later his partial disen- 
 chantment and efforts to escape are brilliantly told. 
 He is like the Roman poet, '\Juravi quoties redi- 
 turum ad limina nunquani ; cum bene juravi, pes 
 iamen ipse reditu The close of the story is very- 
 characteristic. Madame recovers her wanderer, 
 apparently for good, but without knowing it shares 
 him with a humble rival, a petite botine. Thus, 
 though Venus Victrix triunii)hs. the stupider sex 
 avenges itself in its own way. 
 
 Maupassant has often been styled a pessimist, 
 and many passages in this book and others could 
 be cited in support of the contention. Perhaps, 
 however, he is more strictly a fatalist, not so much 
 disgusted with humanity, or disbelieving in its high 
 
 x.wi
 
 Guy (le Maupassant 
 
 hopes and noble iinj)ulscs, as convinced of tlicir 
 general fulilit\' in a struggle against the pressure 
 of nature and the grij) of inexorable circumstance. 
 His tragedy is thus rather of the Greek t\i)e, less 
 concerned with the play of character than with 
 the march of destiny. His depression, again, is of 
 the sort that so often alternates with fits of high 
 spirits in men of his nature. When he fairly lets 
 himself go, no modern French noveHst, except 
 the creator of Tartarin, and scarcely any English- 
 man hut Dickens, can he so absolutely rollicking. 
 La Maison Tcllicr is one instance ; and i)rudish- 
 ness itself must relax when hearing how sadly the 
 model youth of Gisors fell short of the standard 
 proper to the winner of good Madame Husson's 
 prix de vcrtiL, or how quartermaster-sergeant Var- 
 ajou, on a visit to his prim relations, unfortunately 
 mistook the evening party of Monsieur le Premier 
 President de Mortemain for an entirely different 
 order of entertainment. 
 
 Another charge levelled at Maupassant is that 
 of hardness and imperfect sympathy — "a way 
 without tenderness," as Dickens said of Smollett. 
 His limitations in a love-story have been indicated 
 above, and it is worth while to consider how far 
 the accusation can be sustained or refuted in other 
 directions. It may at once be admitted that in 
 
 xxvii
 
 Guy de Maiij)assanc 
 
 these books deliglitful characters — a l^arson Adams, 
 an rnclc 'lOhv, a CoIdikI Ncwcouk' — will he 
 sought in vain. Nor an- his heroines csj)ccially 
 sympathetic. Jeanne in U?ic lie has all the vir- 
 tues, for once in a way, hut is too entirely a vic- 
 tim to be at all adorable. On the other hand, it 
 must be remembered that the scheme of some of 
 the books positively excludes not merely admi- 
 rable, but even likeable, i)ersonages. In Jul-Anii 
 the excellence of the satire depends on the varied 
 worthlessness of everybody ; the whole tone is as 
 7/«moral as in one of Congreve's comedies. Or 
 perhaps, as an exhibition of the purely practical 
 conduct of life in its basest aspects, the book 
 comes closer to Defoe than to any intervening 
 novelist. As in Moll Flanders, there are no mag- 
 nificent culprits, or deviations into even criminal 
 sentiment. Mammon and Chemosh, not Lucifer, 
 are the presiding deities. In a lesser degree the 
 same may be said of Mont-Oriol, which appeared 
 in 1887. But two years later IM. V. Brunetiere 
 was able to write, " Last year we observed with 
 pleasure the modification of M. de Maupassant's 
 genius — the further he advances, the more human- 
 ity he displays." Certainly Piorc ct Jean, which 
 evoked this eulogy, is not lacking in profound 
 pity and sympathy ; though as always, the author, 
 
 x.wiii
 
 Guy de Maupassant 
 
 dreading the creation of a hero in tlie usual sense, 
 exercises much restraint in drawing his principal 
 character. There is nothing heroic in Pierre Ro- 
 land, l)Ut fate deals him some hard hufTets. In 
 the following scene the son, whose younger 
 brother has been left a fortune by an old friend of 
 his mother's, fights against the conviction that 
 there is something sinister about the legacy. It is 
 an illustration alike of Maupassant's intense vivid- 
 ness, and of his art in analyzing a complex emo- 
 tion. Pierre has wandered down to the harbour 
 at night, and has been feverishly recalling the 
 visits of the dead friend in old days — his manner 
 to each of the boys — a half-forgotten portrait — a 
 possible resemblance. 
 
 His misery at this thought was so intense that 
 he uttered a groan, one of those brief moans 
 wrung 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 fog-horn 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 clamour 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 
 
 xxix
 
 Guy de Maupassant 
 
 went uj) ic) tlic niL;ht. Thcy wcic tcnihiiiL:, these 
 calls given foil h hy the <;rcal blind sttaniships. 
 'I'hcn all was silent onee more, Pierre had opened 
 his eyes antl was lookinj^ 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 simj)le-minded, chaste, and 
 loyal woman clearer than water? Could any one 
 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 ! 
 
 Then the doubts rise again. His father is vul- 
 gar and unsympathetic ; the friend was refmed and 
 charming. Look at the case in every way, the 
 worst might easily be true, with comparatively 
 little blame t(j her. 
 
 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 ? Hut did she give herself 
 
 xxx
 
 Guy de Maupassant 
 
 to him ? Why yes, since tliis man liad liad no 
 other love, since he liad rcmaiiud failliful to her 
 when slie was far away and i^rowin^ old. Why 
 yes, since lie had left all his foitune to his son — 
 their son ! And Pierre started U) his feet, fjuiver- 
 ing with such rage that he longed to kill some one. 
 With his arm outstretched, his hand wide open, he 
 wanted to hit, to bruise, to smash, to strangle ! 
 Whom ? Every one ; his father, his brother, the 
 dead man, his mother ! 
 
 To assert that a man who could write thus 
 neither felt himself nor could make others feel, is 
 palpably absurd. It would be difficult to find a 
 more poignant passage, instinct not with pathos 
 but with tragedy, in the fiction of any country or 
 time. 
 
 The healthier side of Maupassant's strong 
 nature developed itself in a love of outdoor pur- 
 suits. There is not a great deal of sport in the 
 stories, and in one instance "' his natural history 
 seems to be at fault. But his delight in scenery 
 was physical rather than cesthetic. He compels us 
 to see with his eyes the rather melancholy quietude 
 of the wide Norman plains, the dreary marshes 
 where the wild-fowl hide, and the silent depths of 
 the woodlands. But scenery appealed to him most 
 
 * The sketch called L'Az/totir. 
 
 xxxi
 
 Guy de Maupassant 
 
 as a background for character or a field for exer- 
 cise, and, so far as water was concerned, when he 
 could not only look at it hut row or sail upon it. 
 The little sketch Sur L 'Eau gives a marvellous pic- 
 ture of a misty moonlight night on the Seine ; and 
 the Mediterranean volume with the same title 
 shows that the charm of the south could enter into 
 his northern blood. Tlie limitations of his genius, 
 however, are obvious when he tries to describe not 
 the sights and incidents but the reflections of 
 travel. An Soleil, for instance, fares badly beside 
 such a book as M. Bourget's Sensations d' lia lie. 
 Maupassant, in fact, was no critic, and he was also 
 one of the least cosmopolitan of writers. Where 
 his compatriots are concerned, his abstention from 
 caricature is remarkable ; but his English are of 
 the long-toothed and orange-whiskered variety dear 
 to the café-concert, and either remain perpetually 
 silent, or ejaculate ''A' oh!'' at fixed intervals. 
 These are small matters, and a more possible Miss 
 Harriet would have been dearly bought at any 
 sacrifice of the intense nationality of the French 
 types. 
 
 Maupassant had no evangel to announce, and 
 would have indignantly disclaimed the imputation 
 of a moral jnirpose. The world is therefore ab- 
 solved from discussing his possible aims and mo- 
 
 xxxii
 
 Guy de Maupassant 
 
 tives. In the result, lunvcvci', it may !»<• foiiiid 
 that his influence has not hem more injurious than 
 that of many writers more pretentiously moral. 
 He may sometimes be corrupt, but he is not cor- 
 rupting; weak minds are vitiated by "poisonous 
 honey," but not by the crude acid which he pours 
 into them. It seems, indeed, to be a case where 
 vice loses some of its evil by retaining most of its 
 grossness. Again, the honesty of his method en- 
 forces a lesson of its own. If the battle between 
 good and evil is fought out as moralists say it is, 
 if sin brings its own punishment in some shape or 
 other, even in the form of impunity, the novelist's 
 record, if really true to life, must be instructive. 
 And surely this is so. The moral of a book like 
 Fort comme La Mort is nowhere formulated, but 
 it could not be more patent if it were presented in 
 the leaves of a religious tract. 
 
 Enough has been said above of Maupassant's 
 aim as an artist, but it must be added that he care- 
 fully withstood the besetting temptation of the 
 realist, the endeavour to create an illusion of reality 
 by the multiplication of trivial details. A certain 
 resemblance to Defoe has been suggested ; but the 
 modern English writer nearest akin to Maupas- 
 sant, in spite of obvious difference of outlook, is 
 Anthony Trollopc. This may^ sound like a para- 
 
 xxxiii
 
 Guy de Maupassant 
 
 dox ; luit if tin- spiiit of Wychcrlcy had guided the 
 pen fcr the author of tlie Barsctshire series and 
 The Wax //'(• Liic Xoi<\ the residt would lia\-e 
 been, nut a JWrrc it Jcau, bul sumcthing not nuich 
 unlike Mo)it-Oriol. Phineas Finn, again, earc- 
 fullv considered, is a cleanly analogue of Jn-i-.lniL 
 It niav he reckoned among Maupassant's minor 
 merits that in one resj-)ect at least he al\va\s writes 
 "like a gentleman at ease." He refrains from 
 raptures over the mere apparatus of luxury and 
 wealth, the Louis Seize furniture and the divine 
 toilettes which lure some other novelists astray. 
 His utter unconsciousness of the duties of author- 
 ship is also delightful : there arc none of those windy 
 appeals to the reader which irritate the most loyal 
 devotees of Thackeray. On the other hand, a 
 student might note one or two curious and excep- 
 tional longueurs. The engineering business in 
 Mont-On'ol hecomts rather tiresome ; and in iXotre 
 Cœur an irrelevant sculptor occupies several pages, 
 only to show, apparently, that the would-be-clever 
 ladies thought his conversation a bore — as possibly 
 it was. The habit, too, of framing very short 
 stories in a narration of the supjiosed circum- 
 stances under which they were told by a friend, is 
 sometimes a little trving. Not nuuh else can be 
 said to depreciate the genius of this remarkable 
 
 xxxiv
 
 Guy de Maupassant 
 
 story-teller, artist doubled with Norman /lobcrcaii 
 in a combination which never may recur. 
 
 A final paragraph may be devoted to M;iuj)as- 
 sant's style. It is presumptuous, i)erhaps, for a 
 foreigner to oiïer any opinion, but it certainly 
 seems (hat no modciii writer has made more 
 rational use of his splendid inheritance, the French 
 language, that unrivalled medium of logical, ej)i- 
 grammatic and nervous expression. Ile himself 
 has explained his simple principle. There is always 
 one word, and one word only, to express a writer's 
 full meaning, and that word has to be found. It 
 is useless to attempt picturesqueness by using 
 strange or obsolete terms ; true originality and 
 force come from the arrangement of plain and 
 familiar words according to their exact value and 
 rhythm. An admirable precept, for once in a 
 way illustrated by its author's unvarying example. 
 Guy de Maupassant will long be remembered as 
 an extraordinarily skilful and original writer of 
 stories : it should not be forgotten that nobody of 
 his generation has done more to maintain the 
 purity of the French tongue, which, as he said, 
 flows through the centuries in n limpid current, 
 into whose waters the archaisms and preciosities 
 of succeeding generations are cast in vain. 
 
 Crewe. 
 
 XXXV
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 
 
 Henpu René Albert Guy de Maupassant 
 was born in a sixtccntJi-century hotcse, the Châlcaïc 
 de Miroincsjiil, near Dieppe, on the §th of Angust, 
 iS^o. His father, a stockbroker, claimed descent 
 from the ancient Norman proprietors of the castle. 
 Maupassant was educated at Yvetot and at Rouen, 
 and became a clerk in the Paris JMinistry of Ma- 
 rine. He zvas idle and unsatisfactory as an em- 
 ployé, and in iSyo and iSji lie left his office alto- 
 gether, servijig in the zcar as a common soldier. 
 He returned, and rose to a high post in the Cabinet 
 de r Instruction Publique, but his interests iiozu 
 settled around athletic exercises and, more ijidefi- 
 nitely, literature. His mother (whose maiden 
 name zuas Mile. Laure Lepoiteviii) was an inti- 
 mate friend of Flaubert, who, about iSyj, began 
 to notice the powerful elements zuhich lay dormant 
 in the intellect of Guy de Maupassant. But he 
 zvas disappoi7ited by the early sketches which he in- 
 duced the yoimg man to compose, and he placed his 
 
 xxxvii 
 
 a
 
 liiograpliic al Note 
 
 protéine under a severe discipline in iJie art of limit- 
 ing. It was not until /SSo t/uit Maupassant loas 
 suddenly made famous by t7vo published volumes. 
 The one was a collect iott of poems, '' /\s J 'e?'s," 
 twenty pieces, most of them of a narrative char- 
 acter, brilliant in execution and audacious in tone. 
 One of these, slightly exceeding its fellows in cru- 
 dity, was threatened with a prosecution in laiv as 
 an outrage on manners, and the fortune of the book 
 was secured. The other venture was equally inter- 
 esting. Afaupassant, who had thrown in his lot 
 with the jVaturalist A^ovelists, contributed a short 
 tale, ''Boule de Su if," to the volume called '' Les 
 Soirées de Médan^' to 7vhich Zola, Iluysmans, Hen- 
 nique, Céard, and Paul Alexis also affixed their 
 names. He was now fairly started on the stream 
 of public composition, and during the following ten 
 years he issued tale after talc with itiifti^gging 
 industry. In iSSi ''La Maison Te Hier," in 
 iSSj " I\Iademoiselle Fif " and the longer novel of 
 " Une Vie" competed witJi the entertaining short 
 stories called " Contes de la Tc'casse " /;/ riveting 
 public attention to the brilliant young writer. 
 Maupassant travelled, and he recounted his ad- 
 ventures in "Au Soleil" (/SSf). To this same 
 year of abundance belong three marvellous volumes, 
 named after a principal story in each, " L^cs Sœurs 
 
 xxxviii
 
 Biographical Note 
 
 Rofidoii" "J//ss I far) ill" a)i(l ''Clair dc /.une." 
 ^'Yvette,'' a short uoi\l, followed • and it now be- 
 comes possible to reeord only the most important of 
 the vehement author s flood of productions. Avions^ 
 these must certainly be included his five great real- 
 istic romances, '' Bel-Ami" iSS§ ; '' ]\Iont-Oriol" 
 iSSy ; ''Pierre et Jean" iSSS ; "Fort cojmne la 
 Mort" i88ç ; and "Notre Cœur" iSgo. In ten 
 years he brought out more than thirty separate 
 volumes. A life of excessive tension, and a reckless 
 waste of energy, however, told upon his co7istilu- 
 tion. Before i8gi he had begun to fail in nervous 
 strength, and to become sitbject to odd delusions. 
 He took to life in a yacht on the Mediterra7tean, 
 but zuithout success. He was ordered to Aix-les- 
 Bains, and then to Cannes, zuhere his insanity 
 asserted itself in a variety of distressing ways. 
 Finally, on the 6th of January, iSç2, he attempted 
 to kill himself, and was with difficulty removed to 
 Paris. There, in an asylum, and in a very pain- 
 ful condition, he lingered until the 6th of July, 
 iSçj, wJien he died. Tivo collections of short 
 stories, "Le Ptre Milan" iSgS, and "Le Colpor- 
 teur" igoo, have been published since his death, 
 and a curious correspondence, "Amitié Amou- 
 reuse" iSçy. Maupassant was a 7nan of powerful 
 physical frame and tempestuous passions, capable 
 
 xxxix
 
 Biographical Note 
 
 of fricndsJiip, but not easily amenable to social 
 conventions, and, in the hour of his extreme suc- 
 cess, misanthropical, suspicious, and unsympathetic. 
 That he was predestined to mental disease many 
 touches in his Xi'orh, sane and powerful as it is, 
 have been thought to suggest ; and in particular the 
 extraordinary vampire-story, " Lc I/orla," iSSy, 
 zuhich deals entirely with overmastering nervous 
 
 delusion. 
 
 E. G. 
 
 xl
 
 LIST OI' ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Portrait of Guy de Maupassant 
 
 Frontispiece 
 
 COLOURED PLATES 
 
 " The mistress held out her hand to the tu-o ladies " . ro/ace/a^e 138 
 ''Jean, with beating heart, offered his hand to help her 
 
 down" ,,142 
 
 " Tlie steamer was shrinking every second'' . . „ 222 
 
 THE PORTRAITS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 From a drawing wade in 1S88 . 
 
 In 1880 
 
 From a photograph, 1888 . 
 From a photograph by Liébert, 18SÛ 
 After an engraving by Boileau . 
 From an engraving by Lekat, 1S80 
 
 rase 
 229 
 
 230 
 
 230 
 
 231 
 
 232 
 
 234 
 
 zli
 
 OF "THE NOVEL" 
 
 I DO not intend in these pages to jnit in a i)lca 
 for this httle nu\'cl. On the eontrary, the ideas I 
 shall try to set forth will rather involve a eritieism 
 of the class of psychological analysis which I have 
 undertaken in Pic?'rc and Jean. I projjose to 
 treat of novels in general. 
 
 I am not the only writer who finds himself 
 taken to task in the same terms each time he 
 brings out a new book. Among many laudatory 
 phrases, I invariably meet with this observation, 
 penned by the same critics: "The greatest fault 
 of this book is that it is not, strictly speaking, a 
 novel." 
 
 The same form might be adopted in reply: 
 
 " The greatest fault of the writer who does me 
 the honour to review me is that he is not a critic." 
 
 For what are, in fact, the essential characteris- 
 tics of a critic ? 
 
 It is necessary that, without preconceived no- 
 tions, prejudices of " School," or partisanship for 
 
 xliii
 
 of '^'Ihc Novel" 
 
 any class of artists, he sliouKl appreciate, distin- 
 guish, and explain the must antagonistic tenden- 
 cies and the most dissiniihir temperaments, recog- 
 nising and accepting the most varied eiïorts of art. 
 
 Now the Critic who, after reading J\[a?iOft 
 Lescaut, Paul ami Virginia, Don Quixote, Les 
 Liaisons dangereuses, ]]'eyt}ier. Elective Affinities 
 (JVahhcrwandsehaften), Clarissa Ilarlowe, Emile, 
 Candide, Cinq-Mars, Rene', Les Trois Mousque- 
 taires, Mauprat, Le Père Goriot, La Cousine 
 Dette, Colomba, Le Rouge et le iVoir, Mademoiselle 
 de Maiipin, Notre-Dame de Paris, Salammbô, 
 A/ada me Bovary, Adolphe, M. de Camors, V Assom- 
 moir, Sapho, etc., still can be so hold as to write 
 "This or that is, or is not, a novel," seems to me 
 to be gifted with a perspicacity strangely akin to 
 incompetence. Such a critic commonly under- 
 stands by a novel a more or less improbable narra- 
 tive of adventure, elaborated after the fashion of a 
 piece for the stage, in three acts, of which the first 
 contains the exposition, the second the action, and 
 the third the catastrophe or dénouement. 
 
 And this method of construction is perfectly 
 admissible, but on condition that all others are ac- 
 cepted on equal terms. 
 
 Arc there anv rules for the making of a novel, 
 which, if we neglect, the tale must be called by 
 
 xliv
 
 Of ^*Thc Novel" 
 
 anolhcr nnmc ? If /Jon Quixoic is a novel, tlicii is 
 Lc Roller ct Ic Noir -x novel? If iMo)itc Christo 
 is a novel, is I'Assomrnoir ? Can any c(Mielusivc 
 comparison he drawn between Goethe's Elective 
 Affinities, The Three Moiisqiieteers, by Dumas, 
 Flaubert's Madame Bovary, III. de Caviors, by 
 Octave Feuillet, and Germinal, by Zola ? Which 
 of them all is The Novel ? What are these famous 
 rules? Where did they originate? Who laid 
 them down ? And in virtue of what principle, of 
 whose authority, and of what reasoning? 
 
 And yet, as it would appear, these critics know 
 in some positive and indisputable way what consti- 
 tutes a novel, and what distinguishes it from other 
 talcs which arc not novels. What this amounts to 
 is that without being producers themselves they 
 are enrolled under a School, and that, like the 
 writers of novels, they reject all work which is 
 conceived and executed outside the pale of their 
 œsthetics. An intelligent critic ought, on the con- 
 trary, to seek out everything which least resembles 
 the novels already written, and urge young authors 
 as much as possible to try fresh paths. 
 
 All writers, Victor Hugo as much as M. Zola, 
 have insistently claimed the absolute and incon- 
 trovertible right to compose — that is to say, to 
 imagine or observe — in accordance with their in- 
 
 xlv
 
 or "'ïhc Novel" 
 
 tlividual concc-plion of t)riL;iiialily, aiul that is a 
 special manner of thinking, seeing, unclerslanding, 
 ami juclgiiiLT. Now the critic who assumes that 
 "the novel" can he delineil in conformity with 
 the iileas he has hased on the novels he prefers, 
 and that certain immutable rules of construction 
 can be laid down, will always find iiimself at war 
 with the artistic temperament of a writer who in- 
 troduces a new manner of work. i\ critic really 
 worthy of the name ought to be an analyst, de- 
 void of preferences or ])assions ; like an expert in 
 j)ictures, he should sim{)ly estimate the artistic 
 value of the object of art submitted to him. I lis 
 intelligence, open to everything, must so far 
 supersede his individuality as to leave him free to 
 discover and praise books which as a man he may 
 not like, but which as a judge he must iluly aj^pre- 
 ciate. 
 
 But critics, for the most part, are only readers; 
 whence it comes that they almost alwa\s f.iul 
 fault with us on wrong grounds, or comj)Hmenl 
 us without reserve or measure. 
 
 The reader, who looks for no more in a l)Ook 
 than that it should satisf\- the natural tendencies 
 of his own mind, wants the wiiter to respond to 
 his predominant taste, and he invariably praises a 
 work or a passage which ajjpeals to his imagina- 
 
 xlvi
 
 Of *'Thc Novel" 
 
 tion, whcllier idealistic, «j^ay, licentious, melan- 
 choly, dreamy or positive, as "striking" or "well 
 written." 
 
 The public as a whole is composed of various 
 groups, whose cry to us writers is : 
 
 " Comfort me." 
 
 "Amuse me." 
 
 "Touch mc." 
 
 " Make me dream." 
 
 " Make me laugh." 
 
 " Make mc shudder." 
 
 " Make me wecj)." 
 
 " Make mc think." 
 
 And only a few chosen spirits say to the 
 artist : 
 
 "Give me something fine in any form which 
 may suit you best, according to your own tem- 
 perament." 
 
 The artist makes the attempt ; succeeds or 
 fails. 
 
 The critic ought to judge the result only in 
 relation to the nature of the attempt ; he has no 
 right to concern himself about tendencies. This 
 has been said a thousand times already ; it will al- 
 ways need repeating. 
 
 Thus, after a succession of literary schools 
 which have given us deformed, superhuman, poeti- 
 
 xlvii
 
 Of *^Thc Novel" 
 
 cal, pathetic, clKirniinp: or niagnificciU pictures of 
 life, a realistic or naturalistic school has arisen, 
 which asserts that it shows us thr truth, the whole 
 truth, and nothing hut the trulh. 
 
 All these theories of art must be recognised as 
 of c(|ual interest, and we must judge the works 
 which are their outcome solely from the point of 
 view of artistic value, with an a priori acceptance 
 of the general notions which ga\e hirtli tt) each. 
 Tt) dispute the author's right to produce a 
 poetical work or a realistic work, is to endeavour 
 to coerce his temperament, to take exception to 
 his originality, to forbid his using the eyes and 
 wits bestowed on him by Nature. To blame him 
 for seeing things as beautiful or ugly, as mean or 
 epic, as gracious or sinister, is to reproach him for 
 not being made on this or that pattern, and for 
 having eyes which do not see exactly as ours see. 
 
 Let him be free by all means to conceive of 
 things as he pleases, provided he is an artist. Let 
 us rise to poetic heights to judge an idealist, and 
 then prove to him that his dream is commonplace, 
 ordinary, not mad or magnificent enough. Hut if 
 we judge a materialistic writer, let us show him 
 wherein the truth of life difTers from the truth in 
 his book. 
 
 It is self-evident that schools so widely difTer- 
 .\1\ iii
 
 Of " The Novel " 
 
 cut nuisl have adopted diaiiictiically opposite pro- 
 cesses in composition. 
 
 The novelist who transforms truth — inimu- 
 tahie, uncompromising, and displeasing as it is — 
 to extract from it an exceptional and delight fid 
 plot, must necessarily manipulate events witliout 
 an exaggerated respect for probability, moulding 
 them to his will, dressing and arranging them so 
 as to attract, excite, or affect the reader. The 
 scheme of his romance is no more than a series of 
 ingenious combinations, skilfully leading to the 
 issue. The incidents are planned and graduated 
 up to the culminating point and effect of the con- 
 clusion, which is the crowning and fatal result, 
 satisfying the curiosity aroused from the first, 
 closing the interest, and ending the story so com- 
 pletely that we have no further wish to know 
 what happened on the morrow to the most en- 
 gaging actors in it. 
 
 The novelist who, on the other hand, proposes 
 to give us an accurate picture of life, must care- 
 fully eschew any concatenation of events which 
 might seem exceptional. His aim is not to tell 
 a story to amuse us, or to appeal to our feelings, 
 but to compel us to reflect, and to understand the 
 occult and deeper meaning of events. By dint of 
 seeing and meditating he has come to regard the
 
 or ''The Novel" 
 
 world, facts, mm, and lliinu:s in a way peculiar to 
 himself, which is llie outcome of the sum total of 
 liis studious observation. It is this personal view 
 of the world which he strives to communieatr lo 
 us by reproducing it in a book. To make the 
 spectacle of life as movinp^ to us as it has been to 
 him, he must brini;- it before our eyes with scru- 
 pulous exactitude. IKnce lie must construct his 
 work with such skill, it must be so artful under so 
 simple a guise, that it is impossible to detect and 
 sketch the plan, or discern the writer's j)urpose. 
 
 Instead of manipulating an adventure and 
 working: it out in such a wav as to make it in- 
 teresting to the last, he will take his actor or 
 actors at a certain period of their lives, and lead 
 them by natural stages to the next. In this way 
 he will show cither how men's minds are modified 
 by the inlluencc i)i their environment, or how 
 their passions and sentinuiits are evolved ; h(,)W 
 they Kjvc or hate, how they struggle in every 
 sphere of society, and how their interests clash — 
 social interests, pecuniary interests, family inter- 
 ests, political interests. The skill of his jilan will 
 not consist in emotional j)ower or charm, in an 
 attractive opening or a stirring catastrophe, but in 
 the happy grouping of small but constant facts 
 from which the final purpose of the work may be 
 
 1
 
 Of *'Thc Novel" 
 
 discerned. If wiiliiii tlncc lumdn-d |)a,L(cs lie de- 
 picts ten years of a life so as to show what its 
 iiulivitlual and characteristic significance may have 
 been in the midst of all tiie other liuman beings 
 which surrounded it, lie ought to know how to 
 ehminatc from among the numberless trivial inci- 
 dents of daily life all which do not serve his end, 
 and how to set in a special light all those which 
 might have remained invisible to less clear-sighted 
 observers, and which give his book calibre and 
 value as a whole. 
 
 It is intelligible that this method of construc- 
 tion, so unlike the old manner which was patent 
 to all, must often mislead the critics, and that tlu y 
 will not all detect the subtle and secret wires — 
 almost invisibly fine — which certain modern artists 
 use instead of the one string formerly known as 
 the "plot." 
 
 In a word, while the novelist of yesterday pre- 
 ferred to relate the crises of life, the acute phases 
 of the mind and heart, the novelist of to-day 
 writes the history of tlie heart, soul, and intellect 
 in their normal condition. To achieve the efTect 
 he aims at — that is to say, the sense of simple 
 reality, and to point the artistic lesson he en- 
 deavours to draw from it — that is to say, a reve- 
 lation of what his contemporary man is before his 
 
 li
 
 Oi '' lUc Novel" 
 
 very eyes, lie must l)rini:: forwanl no facts tliat arc 
 not iricfraL;il)lc aiul invai iahlc. 
 
 But even when we place ourselves at the same 
 point of view as these realistic artists, we may dis- 
 cuss and dispute their theory, which seems to be 
 comprehensively slated in these words: "The 
 whole Truth and nothing but the Truth." Since 
 the end they have in view is to bring out the phi- 
 losophy of certain constant and current facts, they 
 must often correct events in favour of probability 
 and to the detriment of truth ; for 
 
 " Le vrai peut quelquefois, n'être pas le vrai- 
 semblable." (Truth may sometimes not seem 
 probable.) 
 
 The realist, if he is an artist, will endeavour 
 not to show us a commonplace photograph of life, 
 but to give us a presentment of it which shall be 
 more complete, more striking, more cogent than 
 reality itself. To tell everything is out of the 
 question ; it would re(juire at least a volume for 
 each day to enumerate the endless, insignificant 
 incidents which crowd our existence. A choice 
 must be made — and this is the first blow to the 
 theory of "the whole truth." 
 
 Life, moreover, is composed of the most dis- 
 similar things, the most unforeseen, the most con- 
 tradictory, the most incongruous ; it is merciless, 
 
 lii
 
 Of '^'Jlic Novel" 
 
 without sequence or connection, full of inexplica- 
 ble, illogical, and contradictory catastrophes, such 
 as can only be classed as miscellaneous facts. This 
 is why the artist, having chosen his subjcel, can 
 only select such characteristic details as are of use 
 to it, from this life overladen with chances and 
 trifles, and reject everything else, everything by 
 the way. 
 
 To give an instance from among a thousand. 
 The number of persons who, every day, meet with 
 an accidental death, all over the world, is very con- 
 siderable. But how can we bring a tile on to the 
 head of an important character, or fling him under 
 the wheels of a vehicle in the middle of a story, 
 under the pretext that accident must have its due ? 
 
 Again, in life there is no difference of fore- 
 ground and distance, and events are sometimes 
 hurried on, sometimes left to linger indefinitely. 
 Art, on the contrary, consists in the employment 
 of foresight, and elaboration in arranging skilful 
 and ingenious transitions, in setting essential 
 events in a strong light, simply by the craft of 
 composition, and giving all else the degree of re- 
 lief, in proportion to their importance, requisite to 
 produce a convincing sense of the special truth to 
 be conveyed. 
 
 "Truth" in such work consists in producing a 
 hii
 
 Of '^Thc Novel" 
 
 complete illusiuii by following the common logic 
 of facts and not by transcribinc: ihcni pcll-nRll, as 
 they succeed each other. 
 
 Whence I conclude that tlie higher order of 
 Realists should rather call themselves Illusionists. 
 
 I low childish it is, indeed, to believe in this 
 reality, since to each of us the tiuth is in his own 
 mind, his cnvn organs ! Our own eves and cars, 
 taste and smell, create as many different truths as 
 there are human beings on earth. And our brains, 
 duly and differently informed by those organs, ap- 
 prehend, analyze, and decide as differently as if 
 each of us were a being of an alien race. Each of 
 us, then, has simply his own illusion of the world 
 — poetical, sentimental, cheerful, melancholy, foul, 
 or gloomy, according to his nature. And the 
 writer has no other mission than faithfully to re- 
 produce this illusion, with all the elaborations of 
 art which he may have learned and have at his com- 
 mand. The illusion of beauty — which is merely a 
 conventional term invented by man ! The illusion 
 of ugliness — which is a matter of varying opinion ! 
 The illusion of truth — never immutable ! The il- 
 lusion of depravity — which fascinates so many 
 minds! All the great artists are those who can 
 make other men sec tlu-ir own paiticulai illusion. 
 
 Then we must not be wroth with any theory, 
 liv
 
 Of ''The Novel'' 
 
 since each is simply tiic ouIcoiik', in generaliza- 
 tions, of a special temperament analyzing itself. 
 
 Two of these theories have more particularly 
 been the suhjeel uf discussion, and set up in oppo- 
 sition to each other instead of being admitted on 
 an ecjual footing: that of the purely analytical 
 novel, and that of the objective novel. 
 
 The j)artisans of analysis recjuire the writer to 
 devote himself to indicating the smallest evolutions 
 of a soul, and all the most secret motives of our 
 every action, giving but a quite secondary impor- 
 tance to the act and fact in itself. It is but the 
 goal, a simple milestone, the excuse for the book. 
 According to them, these works, at once exact 
 and visionary, in which imagination merges into 
 observation, are to be written after the fashion in 
 which a philosopiier composes a treatise on psy- 
 chology, seeking out causes in their remotest origin, 
 telling the why and wherefore of every impulse, 
 and detecting every reaction of the soul's move- 
 ments under the promptings of interest, passion, 
 or instinct. 
 
 The partisans of objectivity — odious word — 
 aiming, on the contrary, at giving us an exact pre- 
 sentment of all that happens in life, carefully avoid 
 all complicated explanations, all disquisitions on 
 motive, and confme themselves to let persons 
 
 Iv
 
 or ^'Thc Novel" 
 
 and events pass before our c'\ cs. In their opinion, 
 psycliolo<::y should be concealed in the book, as it 
 is in reality, under the facts of existence. 
 
 The novel as conceived of on these lines gains 
 in interest ; there is more movement in the narra- 
 tive, more colour, more of the stir u{ life. 
 
 Hence, instead of giving lon^- e.\planatit)ns of 
 the state of mind of an actor in the tale, thr oi)jcc- 
 tive writer tries to discover the action or gesture 
 which that state of mind must inevitably lead to in 
 that personage, under certain given circumstances. 
 And he makes him so demean himself from one 
 end of the volume to the other, that all his actions, 
 all his movements shall be the expression of his 
 inmost nature, of all his thoughts, and all his 
 impulses or hesitancies. Thus they conceal psy- 
 chology instead of Haunting it ; they use it as the 
 skeleton of the work, just as the invisible bony 
 frame-work is the skeleton of the human body. 
 The artist who paints our j)ortrait does not display 
 our bones. 
 
 To me it seems that the novel executed on 
 this {)rincii)le gains also in sincerity. It is, in the 
 fust place, more probable, for the persons we see 
 moving about us do not divulge to us the motives 
 from which they act. 
 
 We must also take into account the fact that, 
 Ivi
 
 Of ^^Thc Novel" 
 
 even if 1)}' close observation of incn and women 
 \vc can so exactly ascertain their characters as to 
 predict their behaviour under almost any circum- 
 stances, if \vc can say decisively : " vSuch a man, of 
 such a temperament, in such a case, will do this or 
 that ;" yet it does not follow that we could lay a 
 fmgcr, one by one, on all the secret evolutions of 
 his mind — which is not our own ; all the myste- 
 rious pleadings of his instincts — which are not the 
 same as ours ; all the mingled promptings of his 
 nature — in which the organs, nerves, blood, and 
 flesh are different from ours. 
 
 However great the genius of the gentle, deli- 
 cate man, guileless of passions and devoted to 
 science and work, he never can so completely 
 transfuse himself into the body of a dashing, sen- 
 sual, and violent man, of exuberant vitality, torn 
 by every desire or even by every vice, as to under- 
 stand and delineate the inmost impulses and sensa- 
 tions of a being so unlike himself, even though he 
 may very adequately foresee and relate all the ac- 
 tions of his Hfe. 
 
 In short, the man who writes pure psychology 
 can do no more than put himself in the place of :dl 
 his puppets in the various situations in which 
 he places them. It is impossible that he should 
 change his organs, w^hich are the sole intermediary 
 
 Ivii
 
 Of" ^'ilic Novel" 
 
 between exleni.il life aiul ourselves, wliich eon- 
 strain us l>v llKir jH-rccj^lions, eireuniscrihr our sen- 
 sibilities, and ereate in eaeli of us a soul essentially 
 dissimilar to all those about us. Our purview and 
 knowledge of the world, and our idias of life, are 
 ac(]uireil by the aid of our senses, and we cannot 
 lu'Ip transferring them, in some decree, to all the 
 personages whose secret and unknown nature we 
 propose to reveal. Tims, it is alwavs oursehes 
 that we disclose in the body C)f a king or an assas* 
 sin, a robber or an honest man, a courtesan, a nun, 
 a young girl, or a coarse market-woman ; fcjr we 
 arc compelled to put the problem in this j)ersonal 
 form : " If /were a king, a murderer, a prostitute, 
 a nun, or a market-woman, what should / do, what 
 should /think, how should /act ?" We can only 
 vary our characters by altering the age, the sex, 
 the social position, and all the circumstances of 
 life, of that rço which iiatuie has in fact inclosed in 
 an insurmountable barrier of organs of sense. Skill 
 consists in not betraying this rj^'o to the reader, un- 
 der the various masks which we employ to cover it. 
 
 Still, though on the point of absolute exacti- 
 tude, pure psychological analysis is impregnable, it 
 can nevertheless produce works of art as fine as 
 any other method of work. 
 
 Here, for instance, we ha\e the Symbolists. 
 Iviii
 
 Of ^'Ihc Novel'* 
 
 And wliy not ? Tlicir artistic dream is a \v()iiliy 
 one; and tluy liavc tliis especially interesting 
 feature : tiiat they know and i)roclaini I lie extreme 
 difficulty of art. 
 
 And, indeed, a man must be very daring or 
 foolish to write at all nowadays. And so many 
 and such various masters of the craft, of such mul- 
 tifarious genius, what remains to be done that has 
 not been done, or what to say that has not been said ? 
 Which of us all can boast of having written a page, 
 a phrase, which is not to be found — or something 
 very like it — in some other book ? When we read, 
 we who are so soaked in (French) literature that 
 our whole body seems as it were a mere compound 
 of words, do we ever light on a line, a thought, 
 which is not familiar to us, or of which we have not 
 had at least some vague forecast ? 
 
 The man who only tries to amuse his public by 
 familiar methods, writes confidently, in his candid 
 mediocrity, works intended only for the ignorant 
 and idle crowd. But those who are conscious of 
 the weight of centuries of past literature, whom 
 nothing satisfies, whom everything disgusts because 
 they dream of something better, to whom the 
 bloom is off everything, and who always are im- 
 pressed with the uselcssness, the commonness of 
 their own achievements — these come to rejiard 
 
 lix
 
 Ol" ^^ The Novel" 
 
 literary art as a thin:: uiKittainaMc and mysterious, 
 scarcely to lie tlelecled save in a few pages by the 
 greatest masters. 
 
 A score of j)lirascs suddenly discovered thrill 
 us to tiic heart like a startling revelation ; but the 
 lines which follow are just like all other verse, the 
 further How of prose is like all other prose. 
 
 Men of genius, no doubt, escape this anguish 
 and torment because they bear within themselves 
 an irresistible creative power. They do not sit in 
 judgment on themselves. The rest of us, Vvho arc 
 no more than persevering and conscious workers, 
 can only contend against invincible discourage- 
 ment by unremitting elïort. 
 
 Two men by their simple and lucid teaching 
 gave me the strength to try again and again : 
 Louis Bouilhet and Gustave Flaubert. 
 
 If I here speak of myself in connection v>ith 
 them, it is because their counsels, as summed up 
 in a few lines, may jirove useful to some }'oung 
 writers who may be less self-confidenl than most 
 are when they make their début in j)rint. Bouilhet, 
 whom I lust came to know somewhat intimately 
 about two years before I gained the friendship of 
 Flaubert, by dint of telling me tfiat a hundred 
 lines — or less — if they are witliout a llaw and con- 
 tain the very essence of the talent and originality 
 
 Ix
 
 of ^n1ic Novel" 
 
 of even a sccoiul-iate man, arc enou^^Hi to establish 
 an artist's repulalioii, made mc understand that 
 persistent toil and a ihorou^di kn(nvlcd<;e of the 
 eraft, mi<j,iit, in some hapj))- iiour oi lucidity, power, 
 and enthusiasm, by the fortunate occurrence of a 
 subject in perfect concord wiih the tendency of 
 our mind, lead to the production of a single work, 
 short but as perfect as we can make it. Then I 
 learned to see that the best-known writers have 
 hardly ever left us more than one such volume ; 
 and that needful above all else is the good fortune 
 whicli leads us to hit upon and discern, amid the 
 multifarious matter which ofïers itself for selection, 
 the subject which will absorb all our faculties, all 
 that is of worth in us, all our artistic power. 
 
 At a later date, Flaubert, whom I had occa- 
 sionally met, took a fancy to me. I ventured to 
 show him a few attempts. He read them kindly 
 and replied : " I cannot tell whether you will have 
 any talent. What you have brought me proves a 
 certain intelligence ; but never forget this, young 
 man : talent — as Chateaubriand* says — is nothing 
 but long patience. Go and work." 
 
 I worked ; and I often went to see him, feel- 
 ing that he liked me, for he had taken to calling 
 me, in jest, his disciple. For seven years I wrote 
 
 *The idea did not originate witli Chateaubriand. 
 Ixi
 
 Of '^ The Novel" 
 
 verses, 1 wiolc talcs, 1 wvn wioic a villainous j^lay. 
 Nothiiii^ of all this remains. 'I'he master read it 
 all ; ilun, the next Sunday while we breakfasted 
 together, he would give me his criticisms, driving 
 into me by degrees two or tiiree principles which 
 sum up the drift of his long and patient exhorta- 
 tions : " If you have any originality," said he, "you 
 must above all things bring it out ; if you ha\e 
 not you must acquire it." 
 
 Talent is long patience. 
 
 Everything you want to express must be con- 
 sidered so long, and so attentively, as to enable 
 you to fmd some aspect of it which no one has yet 
 seen and expressed. There is an unexplored side 
 to everything, because we are wont never to use 
 our eyes but with the memory of what others be- 
 fore us have thought of the things we see. The 
 smallest thing has something unknown in it ; we 
 must find it. To describe a blazing fire, a tree 
 in a plain, we must stand face to face with that 
 fire or that tree, till to us they are wholly unlike 
 any other fire or tree. Thus we may become 
 original. 
 
 Then, having established \\\r truth that there 
 are nf)t in the whole world two grains of sand, 
 two flies, two hands, or two noses absolutely alike, 
 he would make me describe in a few sentences 
 
 Ixii
 
 Of ^' The Novel" 
 
 some person or ohjcxt, in such a way as to define 
 it exactly, and distinguish it from every otlier of 
 the same race or species. 
 
 *'VVhen you pass a grocer sitting in his door- 
 way," lie would say, " a porter smoking his pipe, ctr 
 a cab-stand, show me that grocer and that porter, 
 their attitude and their whole physical aspect, in- 
 cluding, as indicated by the skill of the portrait, 
 their whole moral nature, in such a way that I 
 could never mistake them for any other grocer or 
 porter; and by a single word give me to under- 
 stand wherein one cab-horse differs from fifty 
 others before or behind it." 
 
 I have explained his notions of style at greater 
 length in another place ; they bear a marked rela- 
 tion to the theory of observation I have just laid 
 down. Whatever the thing we wish to say, there 
 is but one word to express it, but one verb to give 
 it movement, but one adjective to qualify it. We 
 must seek till we find this noun, this verb and this 
 adjective, and never be content with getting very 
 near it, never allow ourselves to play tricks, even 
 happy ones, or have recourse to sleights of lan- 
 guage to avoid a difficulty. The subtlest things 
 may be rendered and suggested by applying the 
 hint conveyed in Boileau's line • 
 
 " D'un mot mis en sa place enseigna le pou- 
 Ixiii
 
 or ^^Thc Novel" 
 
 voir." "lie Luighl the puwcr of a word pul in 
 the ri^^hl i)lace." 
 
 There is no need for an eccentric vocabulary 
 to fornuilale everv sIkuIc of tli(»n_L;hl — the conijili- 
 cated, multifarious, and outlandish words which 
 are put upon us nowadays in the name of artistic 
 writing; but every modification of tlie value of a 
 word by the place it fdls must be distinguished with 
 extreme clearness. Give us fewer nouns, verbs, 
 and adjectives, with almost inscrutable shades of 
 meaning, and let us have a greater variety of 
 j)hrases, more variously constructed, ingeniously 
 divided, full of sonority and learned rhythm. Let 
 us strive to be admirable in st} le, rather than 
 curious in collecting rare words. 
 
 It is in fact more difTicult to bend a sentence 
 to one's will and make it express everything — 
 even what it docs not say, to fdl it full of implica- 
 tions of covert and inexplicit suggestions, than to 
 invent new expressions, or seek out in old and for- 
 gotten books all those which have fallen into disuse 
 and lost their meaning, so that to us they are as a 
 dead language. 
 
 The French tongue, to be sure, is a pure 
 stream, which affected writers never have and 
 never can trouble. Each age has flung into the 
 limi)id waters its pretentious archaisms and euphu- 
 
 ixiv
 
 Of **The Novel" 
 
 isms, but notliing has remained on the surface to 
 perpetuate these futile attempts and impotent ef- 
 forts. It is the nature of the hmgua<^e to be clear, 
 logical, and vigorous. It does not lend itself to 
 weakness, obscurity, or corruption. 
 
 Those who describe without duly heeding ab- 
 stract terms, those who make rain and hail fall on 
 the cleanliness of the window-panes, may throw 
 stones at the simplicity of their brothers of the 
 pen. The stones may indeed hit their brothers, 
 who have a body, but will never hurt simplicity — 
 
 which has none. 
 
 Guy de Maupassant. 
 
 La Guillette, Étretat, September, iSSj. 
 
 Ixv
 
 PIERRE AND JEAN
 
 PIERRE AND JEAN 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 *' TsciiAii ! " exclaimed old Roland suddenly, 
 after he had remained motionless for a quarter of 
 an hour, his eyes fixed on the water, while now 
 and again he very slightly lifted his line sunk in 
 the sea. 
 
 Mme. Roland, dozing in the stern by the side 
 of Mme. Rosémilly, who had been invited to join 
 the fishing-party, woke up, and turning her head 
 to look at her husband, said : 
 
 " Well, well ! Gérome." 
 
 And the old fellow replied in a iury : 
 
 *' They do not bite at all. I have taken noth- 
 ing since noon. Only men should ever go fishing. 
 Women always delay the start till it is too late." 
 
 His two sons, Pierre and Jean, who each held a 
 line twisted round his forefinger, one to port and 
 one to starboard, both began to laugh, and Jean 
 remarked : 
 
 " You are not very polite to our guest, father." 
 3
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 M. Kol.uul was ahasiu'tl, aiul apologized. 
 
 " I bt'g your i)anK>n, Mme Ivoséniilh-, luit iliat 
 is just like me. I invite ladies because I like to be 
 with tluiii, and then, as soon as I feel the water 
 beneath me, I think of nothing but the fish." 
 
 Mme. Roland was now quite awake, and gaz- 
 ing with a softened look at the wide horizon of 
 clilT and sea. 
 
 "You have had good sport, all the same," she 
 murmured. 
 
 But her husband shook his head in denial, 
 though at the same time he glanced complacently 
 at the basket where the fish caught by the three 
 men were still breathing spasmodically, with a low 
 rustle of clammy scales and struggling fins, and 
 dull, ineffectual efforts, gasping in the fatal air. 
 Old Roland took the basket between his knees 
 and tilted it up, making the silver heap of creatures 
 slide to the edge that he might see those lying at 
 the bottom, and their death-throes became more 
 convulsive, while the strong smell of their bodies, 
 a wholesome reek of briiK\ came iiji from the full 
 depths of the creel. The old fisherman sniffed it 
 eagerly, as we smell at roses, and exclaimed : 
 
 " Cristi ! But they are fresh enough!" and 
 he went on: "llow many did you jnill out, doc- 
 teur ?" 
 
 4
 
 Pierre and jean 
 
 His eldest son, i^icrrc, a man oi tliirty, with 
 l)lack uliiskcrs trimmed square like a lawyer's, his 
 mustaehc and beard shaved away, replied : 
 
 "Oh, not many ; three or four." 
 
 The father turned to the younger. " And you, 
 Jean ?" said he. 
 
 Jean, a tall fellow, mueh younger than his 
 brother, fair, with a full beard, smiled and mur- 
 mured : 
 
 " Much the same as Pierre — four or five." 
 
 Every time they told the same fib, which de- 
 lighted father Roland. He had hitched his line 
 round a row-lock, and folding his arms he an- 
 nounced : 
 
 " I will never again try to fish after noon. 
 After ten in the morning it is all over. The lazy 
 brutes will not bite ; they are taking their siesta in 
 the sun." And he looked round at the sea on all 
 sides, with the satisfied air of a proprietor. 
 
 He was a retired jeweller who had been led by 
 an inordinate love of seafaring and fishing to fly 
 from the shop as soon as he had made enough 
 money to live in modest comfort on the interest 
 of his savings. He retired to le Havre, bought a 
 boat, and became an amateur skipper. His two 
 sons, Pierre and Jean, had remained at Paris to 
 continue their studies, and came for the holidays 
 
 5
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 from time to time to share tluir fatiiei's amuse- 
 ments. 
 
 On leaving school, Pierre, the elder, five years 
 older than Jean, had felt a vuealit)n to various 
 professions and had tried half a tlozen in succession, 
 but, soon disgusted with each in turn, he started 
 afresh with new hopes. Medicine had been his 
 last fancy, and he had set to work with so much 
 ardour that he had just (lualilied after an unusually 
 short course of study, by a special remission of 
 time from the minister. He was enthusiastic, in- 
 telligent, fickle, but obstinate, full of Utopias and 
 philosophical notions. 
 
 Jean, who was as fair as his brother was dark, 
 as deliberate as his brother was vehement, as gentle 
 as his brother was unforgiving, had (juietly gone 
 through his studies for the law and had just taken 
 his diploma as a licentiate, at the time when 
 Pierre had taken his in medicine. So they were 
 now having a little rest at home, and both looked 
 forward to settling at Havre if they could find a 
 satisfactory opening. 
 
 But a vague jealousy, one of those dormant 
 jealousies which grow up between brothers or sis- 
 ters and slowly ripen till they burst, on the occa- 
 sion ()( a marriage perhaps, or of some good for- 
 tune happening to one of them, kej)t them on the
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 alert in a sort of brotherly and non-aggrcssivc ani- 
 mosity. They were fond of each other, it is true, 
 but they watched each other. Pierre, five years 
 old when Jean was born, had looked with the eyes 
 of a little petted animal at that other little animal 
 which had suddenly come to lie in his father's and 
 mother's arms and to be loved and fondled by 
 them. Jean, from his birth, had always been a 
 pattern of sweetness, gentleness, and good temper, 
 and Pierre had by degrees begun to chafe at ever- 
 lastingly hearing the praises of this great lad, 
 whose sweetness in his eyes was indolence, whose 
 gentleness was stupidity, and whose kindliness was 
 blindness. II is parents, whose dream for their 
 sons was some respectable and undistinguished 
 calling, blamed him for so often changing his 
 mind, for his fits of enthusiasm, his abortive begin- 
 nings, and all his ineffectual impulses towards gen- 
 erous ideas and the liberal professions. 
 
 Since he had grown to manhood they no longer 
 said in so many words : " Look at Jean and follow 
 his example," but every time he heard them say 
 "Jean did this — Jean does that," he understood 
 their meaning and the hint the words conveyed. 
 
 Their mother, an orderly person, a thrifty and 
 rather sentimental woman of the middle class, 
 with the soul of a soft-hearted book-keeper, was 
 
 7
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 constantly (jucncliing the little livaliics between 
 her two big sons to which the j)eiiy events of 
 their life constantly gave rise. Anotiier link- cir- 
 cumstance, too, just now ilisturbed her j)eace of 
 mint!, and she was in fear of some complications; 
 for in the course of the winlei-, whiK- her boys 
 were linishing tiieir studies, each in his own line, 
 she had made the acquaintance of a neighbour, 
 Mme. Rosémilly, the widow of a captain of a mer- 
 chantman who had died at sea two years before. 
 The young widow — quite young, only threc-and- 
 twenty — a woman of strong intellect who knew 
 life by instinct as the free animals do, as though she 
 had seen, gone through, understood, and weighed 
 every conceivable contingency, and judged I hem 
 with a wholesome, strict, and benevolent mind, 
 had fallen into the habit of calling to work or chat 
 for an hour in the evening with these friendly 
 neighbours, who would give her a cup of tea. 
 
 Father Roland, always goaded on by his sea- 
 faring craze, would question their new friend 
 about the departed captain ; and she would talk of 
 him, and his voyages, and his old-world tales, 
 without hesitation, like a resigned and reasonable 
 woman who loves life and respects death. 
 
 The two sons on their return, fiiuling the 
 pretty widow (juite at home in llic house, forth- 
 
 8
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 with hcL^an to court lier, less from any wish to 
 ciiarm lie r tlian from the desire to cut eacli (Hher 
 out. 
 
 Their mother, being practical and prudent, sin- 
 cerely hoi)ed that one of them might win the 
 young widow, for she was rich ; but then she 
 would have hked that the other should not be 
 grieved. 
 
 Mme. Rosémilly was fair, with blue eyes, a 
 mass of light waving hair, fluttering at the least 
 breath of wind, and an alert, daring, pugnacious 
 little way with her, which did not in the least 
 answer to the sober method of her mind. 
 
 She already seemed to like Jean best, attracted, 
 no doubt, by an affinity of nature. This prefer- 
 ence, however, she betrayed only by an almost 
 imperceptible difference of voice and look and 
 also by occasionally asking his opinion. She 
 seemed to guess that Jean's views would support 
 her own, while those of Pierre must inevitably be 
 different. When she spoke of the doctor's ideas 
 on politics, art, philosophy, or morals, she would 
 sometimes say : " Your crotchets." Then he would 
 look at her with the cold gleam of an accuser 
 drawing up an indictment against woman— all 
 women, poor weak things. 
 
 Never till his sons came home had M. Roland 
 9
 
 Pierre luuI ]eaii 
 
 invited hcv io juin his lisliinj^ expeditions, nor had 
 he ever taken his wife ; for he liked t<> put ofT 
 before daybreak, with his all\-, Captain Ikausire, 
 a master mariner retired, whom he had fust met 
 on the cjuav at iiiiiii tides and with whom lie had 
 struck up an intimacy, and tlie old sailor Papagris, 
 known as Jean Bart, in whose charge the boat 
 was left. 
 
 But one evening of the week before, Mme. 
 Rosémilly, who had been dining with them, re- 
 marked, " It must be great fun to go out fishing." 
 The jeweller, ikittercd by her interest and sud- 
 denly fired with the wish to share his favourite 
 sport with her, and to make a convert after the 
 manner of priests, exclaimed : " Would you like 
 to come ?" 
 
 " To be sure I should." 
 
 "Next Tuesday?" 
 
 " Yes, next Tuesday." 
 
 " Are you the woman to be ready to start at 
 five in the morning?" 
 
 She exclaimed in horror : 
 
 " No, indeed : that is too much." 
 
 He was disappointed and chilled, suddenly 
 doubting her true vocation. However, he said : 
 
 "At what hour can you be ready ?" 
 
 "Well— at nine?" 
 
 10
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 "Not before?" 
 
 '* Nt), nol before. Even that is very early." 
 
 The old fellow hesitated ; he eertainly would 
 catch nothing, for when the sun has warmed the 
 sea the fish bite no more ; but the two brothers 
 had eagerly })rcsscd the scheme, and organized 
 and arranged everything there and then. 
 
 So on the following Tuesday the Pearl had 
 dropped anchor under the white rocks of Cape la 
 Hévc ; they had fished till midday, then they had 
 slept awhile, and then fished again without catch- 
 ing anything ; and then it was that father Roland, 
 perceiving, rather late, that all that Mme. Rosé- 
 milly really enjoyed and cared for was the sail on 
 the sea, and seeing that his lines hung motionless, 
 had uttered in a spirit of unreasonable annoyance, 
 that vehement " Tschah ! " which applied as much 
 to the pathetic widow as to the creatures he could 
 not catch. 
 
 Now he contemplated the spoil — his fish — 
 with the joyful thrill of a miser ; and seeing as 
 he looked up at the sky that the sun was getting 
 low: "Well, boys," said he, "suppose we turn 
 homeward." 
 
 The young men hauled in their lines, coiled 
 
 them up, cleaned the hooks and stuck them into 
 
 corks, and sat waiting. 
 
 II
 
 Pierre and lean 
 
 Roland stood up to look out liki- a captain. 
 
 " No wind," said he. " \'ou will have lu j)iill, 
 yoiuiLï 'uns." 
 
 And suddenly extending one arm tt) the north- 
 ward, he exclaimed : 
 
 "Here comes the packet from Southamp- 
 ton." 
 
 Away over the level sea, spread out like a blue 
 sheet, vast ami sheeny and shot with llamc and 
 gokl, an inky cloud was visible against the rosy 
 sky in the quarter to which he pointed, and below 
 it they could make out the hull of the steamer, 
 which looked tiny at such a distance. And to 
 southward other wreaths of smoke, numbers of 
 them, couKl be seen, all converging towards the 
 Havre pier, now scarcely visible as a while streak 
 with the lighthouse, upright, like a horn, at the 
 end of it. 
 
 Roland asked : " Is not the Normandie due 
 to-day ?" And Jean replied : 
 
 •' Vcs, to-day." 
 
 " Give me my glass. I fancy I see her out 
 there." 
 
 The father pulled out the copj)er tube, :u\- 
 justcd it to his eye, sought the speck, and then, 
 delighted to have seen it, exclaimed : 
 
 "Yes, yes, there she is. I know her two fun- 
 
 12
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 ncls. Would you like lo look, Mme. Kosé- 
 milly ?" 
 
 She took the telescope and directed it towards 
 the Atlantic horizon, without i)eing able, however, 
 to find the vessel, for she could distinguish noth- 
 ing — nothing hut blue, with a coloured halo round 
 it, a circular rainbow — and tlicn all manner of 
 queer things, winking eclipses which made her 
 feel sick. 
 
 She said as she returned the glass : 
 
 " I never could see with that thing. It used 
 to put my husband in quite a rage ; he would 
 stand for hours at the windows watching the ships 
 pass." 
 
 Old Roland, much put out, retorted : 
 
 "Then it must be some defect in your eye, for 
 my glass is a very good one." 
 
 Then he offered it to his wife. 
 
 " Would you like to look ?" 
 
 " No, thank you. I know beforehand that I 
 could not see through it." 
 
 Mme. Roland, a woman of eight-and-forty but 
 who did not look it, seemed to be enjoying this 
 excursion and this waning day more than any of 
 the party. 
 
 Her chestnut hair was only just beginning to 
 show streaks of white. She had a calm, rcason- 
 
 13
 
 Pierre and jean 
 
 able face, a kiiul ami haj)j)y way willi her whicli 
 it was a pleasure to see. lier son Pierre was 
 wiMit lo say that she knew llie value of money, 
 l)iit this dill not hinder her from enjoying the de- 
 lights of dreaming. She was fond of reading, of 
 novels, and poetry, not for their value as works of 
 art. luit for the sake of the tender melancholy 
 mood they would induce in lier. A line of poetry, 
 often but a poor one, often a bad one, would 
 touch the litile chord, as she expressed it, and 
 give her the sense of some mysterious desire al- 
 most realized. And she delighted in these faint 
 emotions which brought a little flutter to her soul, 
 otherwise as strictly kept as a ledger. 
 
 Since settling at Havre she had become per- 
 ceptibly stouter, and her figure, which had been 
 very supple and slight, had grown heavier. 
 
 This day on the sea had been delightful to her. 
 Her husband, without being brutal, was rough 
 with her, as a man who is the despot of his shop 
 is apt to be rough, without anger or hatred ; to 
 such men to give an order is to swear. lb' con- 
 trolled himself in the presence of strangers, but in 
 private he let loose and gave himself terrible vent, 
 though he was himself afraid of every one. wShe, 
 in sheer horror of the turmoil, of scenes, of use- 
 less explanations, always gave way and never 
 
 14
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 asked for anything ; fur a very lung lime she had 
 not ventured to ask Roland to take her out in the 
 boat. So she had joyfully hailed this opportu- 
 nity, and was keenly enjoying the rare and new 
 pleasure. 
 
 From the moment when they started she sur- 
 rendered herself completely, body and soul, U) the 
 soft, gliding motion over the waves. She was not 
 thinking ; her mind was not wandering through 
 either memories or hopes ; it seemed to her as 
 though her heart, like her body, was floating on 
 something soft and liquid and delicious which 
 rocked and lulled it. 
 
 When their father gave the word to return, 
 *' Come, take your places at the oars ! " she smiled 
 to see her sons, her two great boys, take off their 
 jackets and roll up their shirt-sleeves on their bare 
 arms. 
 
 Pierre, who was nearest to the two women, 
 took the stroke oar, Jean the other, and they sat 
 waiting till the skipper should say : " Give way ! " 
 For he insisted on everything being done accord- 
 ing to strict rule. 
 
 Simultaneously, as if by a single effort, they 
 dipped the oars, and lying back, pulling with all 
 their might, began a struggle to display their 
 strength. They had come out easily, under sail, 
 
 15
 
 Pierre and jean 
 
 luit the hrrczc luul dicil away, and the iiiasciilinc 
 piidc i>f the iwi) biDthcrs was suddcnlv aiDiiscd 
 l»y the prospect of measuiins^ their j)()\\eis. When 
 llicy went out alone witli their father they plied 
 the oars without any steering, for Roland would 
 be busy getting the lines ready, while he kept a 
 lookout in the boat's course, guiding it by a sign 
 or a word : " Easy, Jean, and you, Pierre, put 
 your back into it." Or he would say, " Now, 
 then, number one ; come, number two — a little 
 elbow grease." Then the one who had been 
 dreaming pulled harder, the one who had got 
 excited eased down, and the boat's head came 
 round. 
 
 But to-day they meant to display their bi- 
 ceps. Pierre's arms were hairy, somewhat lean 
 but sinewy ; Jean's were round and white and 
 rosy, and the knot of muscles moved under the 
 skin. 
 
 At first Pierre had the advantage. \\"\[\\ his 
 
 teeth set, his brow knit, his legs rigid, his hands 
 
 clinched on the oar, he made it bentl from end to 
 
 end at ev^ery stroke, and the Pearl was veering 
 
 landward. Father Roland, sitting in the bows, so 
 
 as to leave the stern seat to the two women, 
 
 wasted his breath shoutincT, " Rasv, number one ; 
 
 pull harder, number two!" Pierre pulled harder 
 
 i6
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 in his frenzy, and " nunihcr two" could not keep 
 time with his wild stroke. 
 
 At last the skipper cried : "Stop her!" The 
 two oars were lifted simultaneously, and liicn by 
 his father's orders Jean pulled alone for a few 
 minutes. But from that moment he had it all 
 his own way ; he grew eager and warmed to his 
 work, wliile Pierre, out of breath and exhausted 
 by his first vigorous spurt, was lax and panting. 
 Four times running father Roland made them 
 stop while the elder took breath, so as to get the 
 boat into her right course again. Then the doc- 
 tor, humiliated and fuming, his forehead dropping 
 with sweat, his cheeks white, stammered out : 
 
 " I cannot think what has com.e over me ; I 
 have a stitch in my side. I started very well, but 
 it has pulled me up." 
 
 Jean asked : " Shall I pull alone with both 
 oars for a time ? " 
 
 " No, thanks, it will go ofT." 
 
 And their mother, somewhat vexed, said : 
 
 " Why, Pierre, what rhyme or reason is there 
 in getting into such a state. You are not a child." 
 
 And he shrugged his shoulders and set to once 
 more. 
 
 Mme. Rosémilly pretended not to sec, not to 
 
 understand, not to hear. Her fair head went back 
 a 17
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 with an engaging little jerk every time the buat 
 moved forward, making the fmc wayward hairs 
 llutter about her temples. 
 
 But father Roland presently called out : 
 " Look, the Prince Albert is catching us uj) ! " 
 They all looked round. Long and low in the 
 water, with her two raking funnels and two yellow 
 paddle-boxes like two round cheeks, the South- 
 ampton packet came ploughing on at full steam, 
 crowded with passengers under open parasols. Its 
 hurrying, noisy paddle-wheels beating up the water, 
 which fell again in foam, gave it an appearance of 
 haste as of a courier pressed for time, and the up- 
 right stem cut through the water, throwing up two 
 thin translucent waves which glided off along the 
 hull. 
 
 When it had come quite near the Pearl, father 
 Roland lifted his hat, the ladies shook their hand- 
 kerchiefs, and half a dozen parasols eagerly waved 
 on board the steamboat responded to this salute as 
 she went on her way, leaving behind her a few 
 broad undulations on the still and glassy surface of 
 the sea. 
 
 There were other vessels, each wiiii its smoky 
 cap, coming in from every part of the horizon 
 towards the short white jetty, which swallowed 
 them up, one after another, like a mouth. And
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 the fishing barks and lighter craft with broad sails 
 and slender masts, stealing across the sky in tow 
 of inconspicuous tugs, were coming in, faster and 
 slower, towards the devouring ogre, who from time 
 to time seemed to have had a surfeit, and spewed 
 out to the open sea another fleet of steamers, 
 brigs, schooners, and three-masted vessels with 
 their tangled mass of rigging. The hurrying steam- 
 ships flew off to the right and left over the smooth 
 bosom of the ocean, while sailing vessels, cast off 
 by the pilot-tugs which had hauled them out, lay 
 motionless, dressing themselves from the main- 
 mast to the fore-tops in canvas, white or brown, 
 and ruddy in the setting sun. 
 
 Mme. Roland, with her eyes half-shut, mur- 
 mured : " Good heavens, how beautiful the sea is! " 
 
 And Mme. Rosémilly replied with a long sigh, 
 which, however, had no sadness in it : 
 
 " Yes, but it is sometimes very cruel, all the 
 same." 
 
 Roland exclaimed : 
 
 " Look, there is the Normandie just going in. 
 A big ship, isn't she ? " 
 
 Then he described the coast opposite, far, far 
 away, on the other side of the mouth of the Seine 
 — that mouth extended over twenty kilometres, 
 said he. He pointed out Villcrville, Trouville. 
 
 19
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 lloulgate, Luc, Arromanchcs, the little river of 
 Caen, and the rocks of Calvados which make tiie 
 coast unsafe as far as Chcrbour<;. Then lie en- 
 larged on the (lucstion of the sand-banks in the 
 Seine, which shift at every tide so that even the 
 pilots of Ouillebœuf are at fault if they do not 
 survey the channel every day. He bid them notice 
 how the town of Havre divided Upper from 
 Lower Normandy. I n Lower Normandy the shore 
 sloped down to the sea in pasture-lands, fields, and 
 meadows. The coast of Upper Normandy, on 
 the contrary, was steep, a high cliiT, ravined, cleft 
 and towering, forming an immense white rampart 
 all the way to Dunkirk, while in each hollow a 
 village or a port lay hidden : Etrctat, Fecamp, 
 Saint-Valery, Tréport, Dieppe, and the rest. 
 
 The two women did not listen. Torpid with 
 comfort and impressed by the sight of the ocean 
 covered with vessels rushing to and fro like wild 
 beasts about their den, they sat speechless, some- 
 what awed by the soothing and gorgeous sunset. 
 Roland alone talked on without end ; he was one of 
 those whom nothing can disturb. Women, whose 
 nerves are more sensitive, sometimes feel, without 
 knowing why, that the sound of useless speech is 
 as irritating as an insult. 
 
 Pierre and Jean, who had calmed down, were 
 20
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 rowing slowly, and the Pearl was making for the 
 hai i)our, a tiny thing among those huge vessels. 
 
 When they came alongside of the quay, Papa- 
 gris, who was waiting there, gave his hand to the 
 ladies to help them out, and they took the way 
 into the town. A large crowd — the crowd which 
 haunts the pier every day at high tide — was also 
 drifting homeward. Mme. Roland and Mme. 
 Rosémilly led the way, followed by the three men. 
 As they went up the Rue dc Paris they stopped 
 now and then in front of a milliner's or a jewel- 
 ler's shop, to look at a bonnet or an ornament ; 
 then after making their comments they went on 
 again. In front of the Place dc la Bourse Roland 
 paused, as he did every day, to gaze at the docks 
 full of vessels — the Bassni dit CojJimcrcc, with 
 other docks beyond, where the huge hulls lay 
 side by side, closely packed in rows, four or five 
 deep. And masts innumerable ; along several 
 kilometres of quays the endless masts, with their 
 yards, poles, and rigging, gave this great gap in 
 the heart of the town the look of a dead forest. 
 Above this leafless forest the gulls were wheeling, 
 and watching to pounce, like a falling stone, on 
 any scraps flung overboard ; a sailor boy, fixing a 
 pulley to a cross-beam, looked as if he had gone 
 up there bird's-nesting. 
 
 21
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 "Will you dine with us witliout any sort of 
 ccrcniuny, jusl that \vc may end the day together ?" 
 said Mme. Roland to her friend. 
 
 "To he sure I will, wiih pleasure; I accept 
 equally without ceremony. It would he dismal 
 to go home and he alone this evening." 
 
 Pierre, who had heard, and who was heginning 
 to he restless under the young woman's indiffer- 
 ence, muttered to himself : " Well, the widow is 
 taking root now, it would seem." For some days 
 past he had spoken of her as " the widow." The 
 word, harmless in itself, irritated Jean merely by 
 the tone given to it, which to him seemed spiteful 
 and ofTensive. 
 
 The three men spoke not another word till 
 they reached the threshold of their own house. 
 It was a narrow one, consisting of a ground-floor 
 and two floors above, in the Rue Belle-Normande. 
 The maid, Joséphine, a girl of nineteen, a rustic 
 servant-of-all-work at low wages, gifted to excess 
 with the startled, animal expression of a peasant, 
 opened the door, went up stairs at her master's 
 heels to the drawing-room, which was on the lust 
 floor, and then said : 
 
 "A gentleman called — three times." 
 
 Old Roland, who never spoke to her without 
 shouting and swearing, cried out : 
 
 22
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 " Who do you say called, in the devil's 
 name ? " 
 
 She never winced al her master's roaring voice, 
 and replied : 
 
 " A gentleman from the lawyer's." 
 
 "What lawyer?" 
 
 "Why, M'sieu 'Canu — who else?" 
 
 *' And what did this gentleman say ?" 
 
 "That M'sieu 'Canu will call in himself in the 
 course of the evening." 
 
 Maître Lecanu was M. Roland's lawyer, and 
 in a way his friend, managing his business for him. 
 For him to send word that he would call in the 
 evening, something urgent and important must be 
 in the wind ; and the four Rolands looked at each 
 other, disturbed by the announcement as folks of 
 small fortune are wont to be at any intervention 
 of a lawyer, with its suggestions of contracts, in- 
 heritance, lawsuits — all sorts of desirable or for- 
 midable contingencies. The father, after a few 
 moments of silence, muttered : 
 
 "What on earth can it mean?" 
 
 Mme. Rosémilly began to laugh. 
 
 " Why, a legacy, of course. I am sure of it. 
 I bring good luck." 
 
 But they did not expect the death of any one 
 who might leave them anything. 
 
 23
 
 Pierre aiui ]can 
 
 IMiiK". Roland, who luid a L;uc)d mcmorv for 
 relationships, began to think over all their connec- 
 tions on her husband's side and on her own, to 
 trace up ])edigrecs and the ramifications of c^nisin- 
 siiip. 
 
 Before even taking off her bonnet she said : 
 
 "I say, father" (she called her husband 
 "Father" at home, ami sometimes "Monsieur 
 Roland" before strangers), "tell me, do you re- 
 member who it was that Joseph Lebru married 
 for the second time ? " 
 
 " Yes — a little girl named Dumenil, a sta- 
 tioner's daughter." 
 
 " Had they any children ?" 
 
 " I should think so ! four or five at least." 
 
 " Not from that quarter, then." 
 
 She was quite eager already in her search ; she 
 caught at the hope of some added case dropping 
 from the sky. But Pierre, who was very fond of 
 his mother, who knew her to be somewhat vision- 
 ary and feared she might be disappointed, a little 
 grieved, a little saddened if the news were bad 
 instead of g(3od, checked her : 
 
 " Do not get excited, mother ; there is no rich 
 American uncle. For my part, I should sooner 
 fancy that it is about a marriage for Jean." 
 
 Every one was surprised at the suggestion, and
 
 Pierre and ]ean 
 
 Jean was a little runicd by his brotlK-r's having 
 spoken of it before Mme. Rosémilly. 
 
 " v\nd why for nie rather than for you ? The 
 hypothesis is very disputable. You arc the elder ; 
 you, therefore, would be the first to be thought 
 of. Besides, I do not wish to marry." 
 
 Pierre smiled snccringly : 
 
 "Arc you in love, then ?" 
 
 And the other, much put out, retorted : " Is it 
 necessary tliat a man should be in love because he 
 docs not care to marry yet ?" 
 
 "Ah, there you arc ! That 'yet' sets it right ; 
 you are waiting." 
 
 "Granted that I am waiting, if you will have 
 it so." 
 
 But old Roland, who had been listening and 
 cogitating, suddenly hit upon the most probable 
 solution. 
 
 " Bless me ! what fools we are to be racking 
 our brains. Maître Lecanu is our very good 
 friend ; he knows that Pierre is looking out for 
 a medical partnership and Jean for a lawyer's 
 office, and he has found something to suit one 
 of you." 
 
 This was so obvious and likely that every one 
 accepted it. 
 
 " Dinner is ready," said the maid. And they 
 25
 
 Pierre and |eaii 
 
 all hurried off to their rooms to wasli their hands 
 before sitting down to table. 
 
 Ten minutes later they were at dinner in the 
 little dining-room on the ground-t1oor. 
 
 At first they were silent ; but presently Ro- 
 land began again in amazement at this lawyer's 
 visit. 
 
 " For after all, why did he not write ? Why 
 should he have sent his clerk three times ? Why 
 is he coming himself?" 
 
 Pierre thought it quite natural. 
 
 " An immediate decision is required, no doubt ; 
 and perhaps there are certain confidential condi- 
 tions which it docs not do to put into writing." 
 
 Still, they were all puzzled, and all four a little 
 annoyed at having invited a stranger, who would 
 be in the way of their discussing and deciding on 
 what should be done. 
 
 They had just gone upstairs again when the 
 lawyer was announced. Roland flew to meet him. 
 
 "Good-evening, my dear Maître," said he, giv- 
 ing his visitor the title which in France is the 
 ofïicial prefix to the name of every lawyer. 
 
 Mme. Rosémilly rose. 
 
 " I am going," she said. " I am verv tired." 
 
 A faint attempt was made to detain lui ; but 
 
 she would not consent, and went home without 
 
 26
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 cither of the three men offering to escort her, 
 as they always had done. 
 
 Mme. Roland did the honours eagerly to their 
 visitor. 
 
 "A cup of coffee, monsieur?" 
 
 "No, thank you. I have just had dinner." 
 
 "A cup of tea, then ?" 
 
 "Thank you, I will accept one later. First 
 we must attend to business." 
 
 The deep silence which succeeded this remark 
 was broken only by the regular ticking of the 
 clock, and below stairs the clatter of saucepans 
 which the girl was cleaning — too stupid even to 
 listen at the door. 
 
 The lawyer went on : 
 
 " Did you, in Paris, know a certain M. Maré- 
 chal—Léon Maréchal ?" 
 
 M. and Mme. Roland both exclaimed at once : 
 " I should think so ! " 
 
 " He was a friend of yours ?" 
 
 Roland replied : " Our best friend, monsieur, 
 but a fanatic for Paris ; never to be got away from 
 the boulevard. He was a head clerk in the ex- 
 chequer office. I have never seen him since I left 
 the capital, and latterly we had ceased writing to 
 each other. When people are far apart, you 
 
 know " 
 
 27
 
 Pierre and ]ean 
 
 The lawytT gravely put in : 
 
 " M. Maicelial is deceased." 
 
 Both man and wife responded with the ht tie 
 movement of pained surprise, genuine or false, bul 
 always ready, with which such news is received. 
 
 Maître Lecanu went on : 
 
 " My colleague in Paris has just communicated 
 to me the main item of liis will, hy whicii he 
 makes your son Jean — Monsieur Jean Roland — 
 his sole legatee." 
 
 They were all too much amazed to utter a 
 single word. Mme. Roland was the first to con- 
 trol her emotion and stammered out : 
 
 " Good heavens ! Poor Léon — our poor friend ! 
 Dear me ! Dear me ! Dead ! " 
 
 The tears started to her eyes, a woman's silent 
 tears, drops of grief from her very soul, which 
 trickle down her cheeks and seem so very sad, 
 being so clear. But Roland was thinking less of 
 the loss than of the prospect announced. Still, he 
 dared not at once inquire into the clauses of the 
 will and the amount of the fortune, so to work 
 round to these interesting facts he asked : 
 
 "And what did he die of, pooi Maréchal ?" 
 
 Maître Lecanu did not know in tiie least. 
 
 "All I know is," said he, "that dying without 
 
 any direct heirs, he has left the whole of his fortune 
 
 28
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 — about twenty thousand francs a year ($3,840) 
 in lime per cents — to your second son, wIkjui 
 he lias known from liis l)irtii uj), and judges 
 worthy of tiie legacy. If M. Jean should re- 
 fuse the money, it is to go to the foundling hos- 
 pitals." 
 
 Old Roland could not conceal his delight and 
 exclaimed : 
 
 " Sacristi ! It is the thought of a kind heart. 
 And if I had had no heir I would not have fortrot- 
 ten him ; he was a true friend." 
 
 The lawyer smiled. 
 
 " I was very glad," he said, "to announce the 
 event to you myself. It is always a pleasure to 
 be the bearer of good news." 
 
 It had not struck him that this good news was 
 tliat of the death of a friend, of Roland's best 
 friend ; and the old man himself had suddenly for- 
 gotten the intimacy he had but just spoken of 
 with so much conviction. 
 
 Only Mme. Roland and her sons still looked 
 mournful. She, indeed, was still shedding a few 
 tears, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief, which 
 she then pressed to her lips to smother her deep 
 sobs. 
 
 The doctor murmured : 
 
 " He was a good fellow, very affectionate. He 
 29
 
 Pierre ami jean 
 
 often invited ns to dine with him — my brother 
 antl me." 
 
 Jean, with wide-open, glittering eyes, hiid liis 
 hand on liis handsome fair beard, a famihar ges- 
 ture witli him, and drew his fingers down it to tlie 
 tip of the last hairs, as if to pull it longer and 
 thinner. Twiee iiis lii)s parted to utter some de- 
 cent remark, but after long meditation he could 
 only say this : 
 
 " Ves, he was certainly fond of me. He 
 would always embrace me when I went to see 
 him." 
 
 But his father's thoughts had set ofT at a gal- 
 lop — galloping round this inheritance to come ; 
 nay, already in hand ; this money lurking behind 
 the door, which would walk in quite soon, to-mor- 
 row, at a word of consent. 
 
 "And there is no possible difficulty in the 
 way?" he asked. "No lawsuit — no one to dis- 
 pute it ?" 
 
 Maitre Lecanu seemed quite easy. 
 
 " No ; my Paris correspondent states that 
 everything is quite clear. M. Jean has only to 
 sign his acceptance." 
 
 "Good. Then — tiien the fortune is cjuite 
 clear?" 
 
 " Perfectly clear." 
 
 30
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 "All the necessary furinalitics have been gone 
 thi()U<;li ?" 
 
 "All." 
 
 Suddenly the old jeweller had an impulse of 
 shame — obscure, instinctive, and fleeting ; shame 
 of his eagerness to be informed, and he added : 
 
 " You understand that I ask all these ques- 
 tions immediately so as to save my son unpleasant 
 consequences which he might not foresee. Some- 
 times there are debts, embarrassing liabilities, 
 what not ! And a legatee finds himself in an in- 
 extricable thorn-bush. After all, I am not the 
 heir — but I think first of the little 'un." 
 
 They were accustomed to speak of Jean among 
 themselves as the "little one," though he was 
 much bigger than Pierre. 
 
 Suddenly Mme. Roland seemed to wake from 
 a dream, to recall some remote fact, a thing al- 
 most forgotten that she had heard long ago, and 
 of which she was not altogether sure. She in- 
 quired doubtingly : 
 
 " Were you not saying that our poor friend 
 Maréchal had left his fortune to my little Jean ?" 
 
 " Yes, madame." 
 
 And she went on simply : 
 
 " I am much pleased to hear it ; it proves that 
 he was attached to us." 
 
 31
 
 Pierre and jean 
 
 Roland luul risen. 
 
 "And woLiKl you wish, my tlcar sir, that my 
 son slioiild at once sign his acceptance ?" 
 
 " No — no, M. Roland. To-morrow, at my 
 office to-morrow, at two o'clock, if that suits vou." 
 
 " Vcs, to be sure — yes, indeed. I should 
 think so." 
 
 Then Mme. Roland, who had also risen and 
 wiio was smiling after her tears, went up to the 
 lawyer, and laying her hand on the l)aek of his 
 chair while she looked at him with the pathetic 
 eyes of a grateful mother, she said : 
 
 "And now for that cup of tea, Monsieur Le- 
 canu ? " 
 
 " Now I will accept it with pleasure, madame." 
 
 The maid, on being summoned, brought in 
 first some dry biscuits in deep tin boxes, those 
 crisp, insipid English cakes which seem to have 
 been made for a parrot's beak, ami soldered into 
 metal cases for a voyage round the world. Next 
 she fetched some little gray linen doilies, folded 
 square, those tea-napkins which in thrifty families 
 never get washed. A third time she came in with 
 the sugar-basin and cups ; then she departed to 
 heat the water. They sat waiting. 
 
 No one could talk ; they had too much to 
 think about and nothing to say. Mme. Roland 
 
 '32
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 alone attempted a few eommonplacc remarks. 
 She gave an account of tlic fishin^^ excursion, and 
 sang the praises of tiic Pearl and of Mnic. Rosé- 
 milly. 
 
 " Charming ! charming ! " the lawyer said again 
 and again. 
 
 Roland, leaning against the marble mantel- 
 shelf as if it were winter and the fire burning, with 
 his hands in his pockets and his lips puckered for 
 a whistle, could not keep still, tortured by the in- 
 vincible desire to give vent to his delight. The 
 two brothers, in two arm-chairs that matched, one 
 on each side of the centre-table, stared in front of 
 them, in similar attitudes full of dissimilar expres- 
 sion. 
 
 At last the tea appeared. The lawyer took a 
 cup, sugared it, and drank it, after having crum- 
 bled into it a little cake which was too hard to 
 crunch. Then he rose, shook hands, and de- 
 parted. 
 
 " Then it is understood," repeated Roland. 
 "To-morrow, at your place, at two ?" 
 
 " Quite so. To-morrow, at two." 
 
 Jean had not spoken a word. 
 
 When their guest had gone, silence fell again 
 till father Roland clapped his two hands on his 
 younger son's shoulders, crying : 
 
 3 '' ">
 
 Pierre and jean 
 
 " Well, you dcvilisli lucky tK)^:: ! You don't cin- 
 bracc nic ! " 
 
 Tiicn Jean sniiU'd. lie embraced his father, 
 sayinL!,- : 
 
 " It had not struck mc as indisjjensahle." 
 
 The old man was beside himself with glee. 
 He walked about the room, strummed on the 
 furniture with his clumsy nails, turned about on 
 his heels, and kejn saying : 
 
 "What luck 1 what luck ! Now, that is really 
 what I call luck !" 
 
 Pierre asked : 
 
 " Then you used to know this Maréchal well ?" 
 
 And his father replied : 
 
 " I believe you ! Why, he used to spend every 
 evening at our house. Surely you remember he 
 used to fetch you from school on half-holidays, 
 and often took you back again after tliniier. Why, 
 the very day when Jean was born it was he who 
 went for the doctor. He had been breakfasting 
 with us when your mother was taken ill. Of 
 course we knew at once what it meant, and he set 
 ofT post-haste. In his hurry he took my hat in- 
 stead of his own. I remember that because we 
 had a good laugh over it afterward. It is very 
 likely that he may have thought of that when he 
 was dying, and as he had no heir he may have said 
 
 34
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 to himself: 'I remember liilpiii,!^^ to brin^^ lliat 
 youngster into the world, so 1 will leave him my 
 savings.' " 
 
 Mme. Roland, sunk in a deep chair, seemed 
 lost in reminiscences once more. She murmured, 
 as though she were thinking aloud : 
 
 " Ah, lie was a good friend, very devoted, very 
 faithful, a rare soul in these days." 
 
 Jean got up. 
 
 " I shall go out for a little walk," he said. 
 
 His father was surprised and tried to keep 
 him ; they had much to talk about, plans to be 
 made, decisions to be formed. But the young 
 man insisted, declaring that he had an engage- 
 ment. Besides, there would be time enough for 
 settling everything before he came into possession 
 of his inheritance. So he went away, for he wished 
 to be alone to reflect. Pierre, on his part, said 
 that he too was going out, and after a few minutes 
 followed his brother. 
 
 As soon as he was alone with his wife, father 
 Roland took her in his arms, kissed her a dozen 
 times on each cheek, and, replying to a reproach 
 she had often brought against him, said : 
 
 " You see, my dearest, that it would have been 
 of no good to stay any longer in Paris and work 
 for the children till I dropped, instead of coming 
 
 35
 
 Pierre and |c:in 
 
 here to recruit niv licaltli, since fortune drops on 
 us from the skies." 
 
 Slie was quite serious. 
 
 " It drops from the skies on Jean," she said. 
 "But Pierre?" 
 
 " Pierre ? But he is a doctor ; lie will make 
 plenty of money ; besides, his brother will surely 
 do something for him." 
 
 " No, he would not take it. Besides, this leg- 
 acy is for Jean, only for Jean. Pierre will find 
 himself at a great disadvantage." 
 
 The old fellow seemed perplexed: "Well, 
 then, we will leave him rather more in our will." 
 
 " No ; that again would not be cjuite just." 
 
 " Drat it all !" he exclaimed. " \Vhat do you 
 want me to do in the matter? Vou always hit on 
 a whole heap of disagreeable ideas. You must 
 spoil all my pleasures. Well, I am going to bed. 
 Good-night. All the same, I call it good luck, 
 jolly good luck ! " 
 
 And he went ofi", delighted in spite of every- 
 thing, and without a word of regret for the friend 
 so generous in his death. 
 
 Mme. Roland sat thinking again, in front 
 of the lamp which was burning out. 
 
 36
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 As soon as he got out, Pierre made his way to 
 the Rue de Paris, the high-street of Havre, brigluly 
 lighted up, lively and noisy. The rather sharp air 
 of the scacoast kissed his face, and he walked 
 slowly, his stick under his arm and his hands behind 
 his back. He was ill at ease, oppressed, out of 
 heart, as one is after hearing unpleasant tidings. 
 He was not distressed by any definite thought, 
 and he would have been puzzled to account, on 
 the spur of the moment, for this dejection of spirit 
 and heaviness of limb. Pic was hurt somewhere, 
 without knowing where ; somewhere within him 
 there was a pin-point of pain — one of those almost 
 imperceptible wounds which we cannot lay a finger 
 on, but which incommode us, tire us, depress us, 
 irritate us — a slight and occult pang, as it were 
 a small seed of distress. 
 
 When he reached the square in front of the 
 theatre, he was attracted by the lights in the Café 
 Tortoni, and slowly bent his steps to the dazzling 
 façade ; but just as he was going in he reflected 
 
 37
 
 Pierre and jean 
 
 that he would meet friends there and aequaint- 
 anccs— people he would be obliged to talk to ; and 
 fierce repugnance surged up in him for this com- 
 monplace good-fellowship over cofTee cuj)S and 
 liqueur glasses. So, retracing his steps, he went 
 back to the high-street leading to the liarhour. 
 
 "Where shall I go?" he askrd himself, trying 
 to think of a spot he liked which would agree 
 with his frame of minil. He could not think 
 of one, for being alone made him feel fractious, 
 yet he could not bear to meet any one. As he 
 came out on the Grand Quay he hesitated once 
 more ; then he turned towards the pier ; he had 
 chosen solitude. 
 
 Going close by a bench on the breakwater he 
 sat down, tired already of walking and out of 
 humour with his stroll before he had taken it. 
 
 He said to himself : " What is the matter with 
 me this evening?" And he began to search in his 
 memory for what vexation had crossed him, as we 
 question a sick man to discover the cause of his 
 fever. 
 
 His mind was at once irritable and sober; he 
 got excited, then he reasoned, approving or blam- 
 ing his impulses ; but in time primitive nature at 
 last proved the stronger ; the sensitive man always 
 had the upper hand over the intellectual man. So 
 
 38
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 he tried to discover what had induced this irascible 
 mood, tiiis craving to be moving wiliitjul wanting 
 anything, this desire to meet some one ior the 
 sake of dilTcring from him, and at the same time 
 this aversion for the j)eoj)Ie lie might see and the 
 things they might say to him. 
 
 And then he put the (question to himself, " Can 
 it be Jean's inheritance ? " 
 
 Yes, it was certainly possible. When the lawyer 
 had announced the news he had felt his heart beat 
 a little faster. For, indeed, one is not always 
 master of one's self ; there are sudden and pertina- 
 cious emotions against which a man struggles in 
 vain. 
 
 He fell into meditation on the physiological 
 problem of the impression produced on the in- 
 stinctive element in man, and giving rise to a cur- 
 rent of painful or pleasurable sensations diametri- 
 cally opposed to those which the thinking man de- 
 sires, aims at, and regards as right and wholesome, 
 when he has risen superior to himself by the culti- 
 vation of his intellect. He tried to picture to him- 
 self the frame of mind of a son who has inherited 
 a vast fortune, and who, thanks to that wealth, 
 may now know many long-wished-for delights 
 which the avarice of his father had prohibited— a 
 father, nevertheless, beloved and regretted. 
 
 39
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 He got up and walked on to tlic end of the 
 pier, lie felt better, and glad to have understood, 
 to have detected iiiniself, to have unmasked //te 
 other which lurks in us. 
 
 "Then I was jealous of Jean," thought he. 
 "That is really vilely mean. .And I am sure of it 
 now, for the fust idea which came into my head 
 was that he would marry Mme. Rosémilly. And 
 yet I am not in love myself with that priggish 
 little goose, who is just the woman to disgust a 
 man with good sense and good conduct. So it is 
 the most gratuitous jealousy, the very essence of 
 jealousy, which is merely because it is ! I must 
 keep an eye on that !" 
 
 By this time he was in front of the flag-staff, 
 whence the depth of water in the harbour is sig- 
 nalled, and he struck a match to read fhe list of 
 vessels signalled in the roadstead and coming in 
 with the next high tide. Ships were due from 
 Brazil, from La Plata, from Chili and Japan, two 
 Danish brigs, a Norwegian schooner, and a Turk- 
 ish steamship — which startled Pierre as much as if 
 it had read a Swiss steamship ; and in a whimsical 
 vision he pictured a great vessel crowded with men 
 in turbans climbing the shrouds in loose trousers. 
 
 " How absurd ! " thought he. " But the Turks 
 arc a maritime people, too." 
 
 40
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 A few steps further on he slopped again, look- 
 ing out at the roads. On tlie right, above Sainte- 
 Adresse, the two electric lights of Cape la llèvc, 
 like monstrous twin Cyclops, shot their long and 
 powerful beams across the sea. Starting from two 
 neighbouring centres, the two parallel shafts of 
 light, like the colossal tails of two comets, fell in a 
 straight and endless slope from the top of the cliff 
 to the uttermost horizon. Then, on the two piers, 
 two more lights, the children of these giants, 
 marked the entrance to the harbour ; and far away 
 on the other side of the Seine others were in sight, 
 many others, steady or winking, flashing or re- 
 volving, opening and shutting like eyes — the eyes 
 of the ports — yellow, red, and green, watching the 
 night-wrapped sea covered with ships ; the living 
 eyes of the hospitable shore saying, merely by the 
 mechanical and regular movement of their eye-lids : 
 •" I am here. I am Trouville ; I am Honfleur ; I 
 am the Audemer River." And high above all the 
 rest, so high that from this distance it might be 
 taken for a planet, the airy lighthouse of Etouville 
 showed the way to Rouen across the sand banks 
 at the mouth of the great river. 
 
 Out on the deep water, the limitless water, 
 darker than the sky, stars seemed to have fallen 
 here and there. They twinkled in the night haze, 
 
 41
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 small, close to shore or far away — white, red, and 
 green, too. Most of them were motionless; some, 
 however, seemed to be scudding onward. These 
 were the lights of the ships at anchor or moving 
 about in search of moorings. 
 
 Just at this moment the moon rose behind the 
 town ; and it, too, looked like some huge, divine 
 pharos lighted up in the heavens to guide the 
 countless fleet of stars in the sky. Pierre mur- 
 mured, almost speaking aloud : " Look at tiiat ! 
 And we let our bile rise for twopence ! " 
 
 On a sudden, close to him, in the wide, dark 
 ditch between the two piers, a shadow stole up, a 
 large shadow of fantastic shape. Leaning over 
 the granite parapet, he saw^ that a fishing-boat had 
 glided in, without the sound of a voice or the 
 splash of a ripple, or tiic j)lunge of an oar, softly 
 borne in by its broad, tawny sail spread to the 
 breeze from the open sea. 
 
 lie thought to himself: "If one could but 
 live on board that boat, what peace it would be — 
 perhaps ! " 
 
 And then again a few steps bevoiul. he saw 
 a man sitting at tlie very end of the break- 
 water. 
 
 A dreamer, a lover, a sage — a happy or a des- 
 perate man? Who was it? He went forward, 
 
 42
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 curious to sec llic face of tliis lonely individual, 
 and he recognised iiis brother. 
 
 "What, is it you, Jean ?" 
 
 " Pierre ! \'ou ! What has brought you here ?" 
 
 " I came out to get some fresh air. And 
 you .'' 
 
 Jean began to laugh. 
 
 " I too came out for fresh air." >\nd Pierre 
 sat down by his brother's side. 
 
 " Lovely — isn't it ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, lovely." 
 
 He understood from the tone of voice that 
 Jean had not looked at anything. He went on : 
 
 " For my part, whenever I come here I am 
 seized with a wild desire to be ofT with all those 
 boats, to the north or the south. Only to think 
 that all those little sparks out there have just come 
 from the uttermost ends of the earth, from the 
 lands of great flowers and beautiful olive or copper 
 coloured girls, the lands of humming-birds, of ele- 
 phants, of roaming lions, of negro kings, from all 
 the lands w^hich are like fairy-tales to us who no 
 longer believe in the White Cat or the Sleeping 
 Beauty. It would be awfully jolly to be able to 
 treat one's self to an excursion out there ; but, 
 then, it would cost a great deal of money, no 
 
 end " 
 
 43
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 Ile broke ofT abruptly, remembering that his 
 brother had that money now ; and released from 
 care, released from labouring for his daily bread, 
 free, unfettered, happy, and lighl-hcarlcd, lie might 
 go whither he listed, to liiul the fair-haired Swedes 
 or the brown damsels of Havana. And then one 
 of those involuntary Hashes which were common 
 with him, so sudden and swift that he could neither 
 anticipate them, nor stop them, nor qualify them, 
 communicated, as it seemed to him, from some sec- 
 ond, independent, and violent soul, shot through 
 his brain. 
 
 '• Bah ! He is too great a simpleton ; he will 
 marry that little Rosémilly." He was standing up 
 now. " I will leave you to dream of the future. 
 I want to be moving." He grasped his brother's 
 hand and added in a heavy tone : 
 
 " Well, my dear old boy, you are a rich man. 
 I am very glad to have come upon you this even- 
 ing to tell you how pleased I am about it, how 
 truly I congratulate you, and how much I care 
 for you." 
 
 Jean, tender and soft-hearted, was deeply 
 touched. 
 
 "Thank you, my good brother — thank you!" 
 he stammered. 
 
 And Pierre turned away with his slow step, 
 44
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 his stick under his arm, and his hands behind his 
 back. 
 
 Back in the town a<j:ain, he once more won- 
 dered what he should do, being disappointed of 
 his walk and deprived of the company of the sea 
 by his brother's presence, lie had an inspiration. 
 " I will go and take a glass of liqueur with old 
 Marowsko," and he went off towards the cjuarter 
 of the town known as Ingouville. 
 
 He had known old Marowsko — Ic pcre Ma- 
 rozvsko, he called him — in the hospitals in Paris, 
 lie was a Pole, an old refugee, it was said, who 
 had gone through terrible things out there, and 
 who had come to })ly his calling as a chemist and 
 druggist in France after passing a fresh examina- 
 tion. Nothing was known of his early life, and 
 all sorts of legends had been current among the 
 indoor and outdoor patients and afterward among 
 his neighbours. This reputation as a terrible con- 
 spirator, a nihilist, a regicide, a patriot ready for 
 anything and everything, who had escaped death 
 by a miracle, had bewitched Pierre Roland's lively 
 and bold imagination ; he had made friends with 
 the old Pole, without, however, having ever ex- 
 tracted from him any revelation as to his former 
 career. It was owing to the young doctor that 
 this worthy had come to settle at Havre, counting 
 
 45
 
 Pierre and jean 
 
 on tlic laif^^c custom which the risin^r practitioner 
 would secure liini. Meanwhile he liwd very poor- 
 Iv in his little shop, sellinj^ nu'dicines to the small 
 tradesmen and workmen in his j)art of the town. 
 
 Pierre often went to see him and chat with 
 iiim for an hour after dinner, for he liked Ma- 
 rowsko's calm look and rare speech, and attributed 
 great depth to his long spells of silence. 
 
 A single gas-burner was alight over the coun- 
 ter crowded with phials. Those in the window 
 were not lighted, from motives of economy. Be- 
 hind the counter, sitting on a chair with his legs 
 stretched out and crossed, an old man, quite bald, 
 with a large beak of a nose which, as a prolonga- 
 tion of his hairless forehead, gave him a melan- 
 choly likeness to a parrot, was sleeping soundly, 
 his chin resting on his breast. He woke at the 
 sound of the shop-bell, and recognising the doc- 
 tor, came forward to meet him, holding out both 
 hands. 
 
 1 1 is black frock-coat, streaked with stains of 
 acids and sirups, was much too wide for his lean 
 little person, and looked like a shabby old cassock ; 
 and the man spoke with a strong Polish accent 
 which gave a childlike character to his thin voice, 
 the lisping note and intonations of a young thing 
 learning to speak. 
 
 46
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 Pierre sat down, and Marowsko asked him: 
 "What news, dear doetor?" 
 
 " None. Everything as usual, everywhere." 
 
 " You do not look very gay this evening." 
 
 " I ani not often gay." 
 
 " Come, eome, you must shake that off. Will 
 you try a glass of liqueur?" 
 
 " Yes, I do not mind." 
 
 "Then I will give you something new to try. 
 For these two months I have been trying to ex- 
 tract something from currants, of which only a 
 sirup has been made hitherto — well, and I have 
 done it. I have invented a very good liqueur — 
 very good indeed ; very good." 
 
 And quite delighted, he went to a cupboard, 
 opened it, and picked out a bottle which he 
 brought forth. He moved and did everything 
 m jerky gestures, always incomplete ; he never 
 quite stretched out his arm, nor quite put out his 
 legs ; nor made any broad and definite move- 
 ments. His ideas seemed to be like his actions; 
 he suggested them, promised them, sketched them, 
 hinted at them, but never fully uttered them. 
 
 And, indeed, his great end in life seemed to be 
 the concoction of sirups and liqueurs. " A good 
 sirup or a good liqueur is enough to make a for- 
 tune," he would often say. 
 
 47
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 Ile had conipuuncKd hundreds uf tiicse swcct 
 mixtures without ever suececdinix in floating one 
 of iheni. Pierre deelared that Marowsko always 
 reminded liini of Marat. 
 
 Two little glasses were felehed out of ilie back 
 shop ami ])laccd on the mixing-board. Then the 
 two men scrutinized the colour of the lluid by 
 holding it up to the gas. 
 
 " A fine ruby," Pierre declared. 
 
 " Isn't it ? " Marowsko's old parrot-face beamed 
 with satisfaction. 
 
 The doctor tasted, smacked his lips, meditated, 
 tasted again, meditated again, and spoke : 
 
 " Very good — capital ; and quite new in fla- 
 vour. It is a find, my dear fellow." 
 
 " Ah, really ? Well, I am very glad." 
 
 Then Marowsko took counsel as to baptizing 
 the new liqueur. He wanted to call it " Extract 
 of currants," or else ''Fine G?'oscilIc,'' or " Grosé- 
 lia^' or again " Groscliney Pierre did not ap- 
 prove of either of these names. 
 
 Then the old man had an idea : 
 
 "What you said just now would be very good, 
 very good: 'Fine Ruby.'" Hiii the d(.)etor dis- 
 puted the merit of this name, thougli it had origi- 
 nated with him. He recommended simply " Gro- 
 seillctte," which Marowsko thought admirable. 
 
 48
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 Then liicy were silent, and sal for sf)nie min- 
 utes without a word under tlic soHtary <]^as-lamp. 
 At last Pierre began, almost in spite oi him- 
 self : 
 
 " A queer thing has haj)pened at home this 
 evening. A friend of my father's, who is lately 
 dead, has left his fortune to my brother," 
 
 The druggist did not at fust seem to under- 
 stand, but after thinking it over he hoped that 
 the doctor had half the inheritance. When the 
 matter was clearly explained to him he appeared 
 surprised and vexed ; and to express his dissatis- 
 faction at finding that his young friend had been 
 sacrificed, he said several times over : 
 
 " It will not look well." 
 
 Pierre, who was relapsing into nervous irrita- 
 tion, wanted to know what Marowsko meant by 
 this phrase. 
 
 Why would it not look well ? What was 
 there to look badly in the fact that his brother 
 had come into the money of a friend of the 
 family ? 
 
 But the cautious old man would not explain 
 further. 
 
 " In such a case the money is left equally to 
 the two brothers, and I tell you, it will not look 
 well." 
 
 4 49
 
 Pierre and jean 
 
 And the doctor, out of all jiaticncc, went 
 awav, returned to his father's house, and went 
 to bed. l''or some time afterward lie licard Jean 
 moving softly about the adjoining room, and 
 then, after drinking two glasses of water, he fell 
 asleep. 
 
 50
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 The doctor awoke next morning firmly re- 
 solved to make his fortune. Several times already 
 he had come to the same determination without 
 following up the reality. At the outset of all his 
 trials of some new career the hopes of rapidly ac- 
 quired riches kept up his efforts and confidence, 
 till the first obstacle, the first check, threw him 
 into a fresh path. Snug in bed between the warm 
 sheets, he lay meditating. How many medical 
 men had become wealthy in quite a short time ! 
 All that was needed was a little knowledge of 
 the world ; for in the course of his studies he had 
 learned to estimate the most famous physicians, 
 and he judged them all to be asses, tîe was cer- 
 tainly as good as they, if not better. If by any 
 means he could secure a practice among the wealth 
 and fashion of Havre, he could easily make a hun- 
 dred thousand francs a year. And he calculated 
 with great exactitude what his certain profits must 
 be. He would go out in the mornings to visit his 
 patients ; at the very moderate average of ten a 
 
 51
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 day, at twenty francs each, that would mount up 
 to seventy-two thousand francs a year at least, or 
 even seventy-five thousand ; fur ten j)aticnts was 
 certainly below the mark. In the afternoon he 
 would be at home to, say, another ten patients, at 
 ten francs each — thirty-six thousand francs. Here, 
 then, in round numbers, was an income of twenty 
 thousand francs. Old patients, or friends whom 
 he would charge only ten francs for a visit, or see 
 at home for five, would perhaps make a slight re- 
 duction on this sum total, but consultations with 
 other physicians and various incidental fees would 
 make up for that. 
 
 Nothinor would be easier than to achieve this 
 
 o 
 
 by skilful advertising remarks in tiie l^garo to 
 the effect that tlie scientific faculty of Paris had 
 their eve on him, and were interested in the cures 
 effected by the modest young practitioner of 
 Havre ! And he would be richer than his brother, 
 richer and more famous ; and satisfied with him- 
 self, for he would owe his fortune solely to his 
 own exertions ; and liberal to his old parents, who 
 would be justly proud of his fame. He would 
 not marry, would not burden his life with a wife 
 who would be in his wa\-, but he would choose his 
 mistress from the most beautiful of his patients. 
 He felt so sure of success that he sprang out 
 
 t;2
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 of bed as though to grasp it on tlic spot, and he 
 dressed to go and search through the town for 
 rooms to suit him. 
 
 Then, as he wandered about the streets, he 
 reflected how sUght are the causes which determine 
 our actions. Any time liiese three weeks he might 
 and ought to iiave come to this decision, which, 
 beyond a doubt, the news of his brother's inherit- 
 ance had abruptly given rise to. 
 
 He stopped before every door where a placard 
 proclaimed that " fine apartments" or "handsome 
 rooms " were to be let ; announcements without an 
 adjective he turned from with scorn. Then he in- 
 spected them with a lofty air, measuring the height 
 of the rooms, sketching the plan in his note-book, 
 with the passages, the arrangement of the exits, 
 explaining that he was a medical man and had 
 many visitors. He must have a broad and well- 
 kept stair-case ; nor could he be any higher up than 
 the first floor. 
 
 After having written down seven or eight 
 addresses and scribbled two hundred notes, he 
 got home to breakfast a quarter of an hour too 
 late. 
 
 In the hall he heard the clatter of plates. Then 
 they had begun without him ! Why ? They were 
 never wont to be so punctual. He was nettled 
 
 53
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 ami put out. for lie was sonu-what thin-skinned. 
 As he WLiU in Kohuul said to him : 
 
 " Conu', Pierre, make haste, tlevil take you! 
 Yon know we have to be at the lawyer's at two 
 o'clock. This is not the day to be dawdling 
 about." 
 
 Pierre sat down without replying, after kissing 
 his mother and shaking hands with his father and 
 brother ; and he helped himself from the deep dish 
 in the middle of the table to the cutlet which had 
 been kept for him. It was cold and dry, probably 
 the least tempting of them all. He thought that 
 they might have left it on the lu)t plate till he 
 came in, and not lose their heads so completely as 
 to have for^jottcn their other son, their eldest. 
 
 The conversation, whieh his entrance had in- 
 terrupted, was taken up again at the point where 
 it had ceased. 
 
 " In your place," Mme. Roland was saying to 
 Jean, " I will tell you what I should do at once. 
 I should settle in handsome rooms so as to attract 
 attenli(jn ; I should ride on horseback and select 
 one or two interesting cases to defend and make a 
 mark in court. I would be a sort of amateur 
 lawyer, and very select. Thank God you are out 
 of all danger of want, and if xon j)ursue a profes- 
 sion, it is, after all, onl\' that you may not lose the 
 
 54
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 benefit of your studies, and because a man ought 
 never to sit idle." 
 
 Old Roland, who was peeling a jK'ar, ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 " Christi ! In your j)lace I should buy a nice 
 yacht, a cutter on the build of our j)il()t-boats. I 
 would sail as far as Senegal in such a boat as that." 
 
 Pierre, in his turn, spoke his views. After all, 
 said he, it was not his wealth which made the 
 moral worth, the intellectual worth of a man. To 
 a man of inferior mind it was only a means of 
 degradation, while in the hands of a strong man it 
 was a powerful lever. They, to be sure, were rare. 
 If Jean were a really superior man, now that he 
 could never want he might prove it. But then he 
 must work a hundred times harder than he would 
 have done in other circumstances. His business 
 now must be not to argue for or against the widow 
 and the orphan, and pocket his fees for every case 
 he gained, but to become a really eminent legal 
 authority, a luminary of the law. And he added 
 in conclusion : 
 
 " If I were rich wouldn't I dissect no end of 
 bodies !" 
 
 Father Roland shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "That is all very fine," he said. "But the 
 wisest way of life is to take it easy. We are not 
 
 55
 
 Pierre and [can 
 
 beasts of bunion, but men. If \()U arc born poor 
 you must work ; well, so much the worse ; and 
 Vt)U do work. Hut wlurc )(>u have dividends! 
 Vi»u must be a Ikit if you L;rind yourself to death." 
 
 Pierre replied haughtily : ' 
 
 "Our notions differ. For my part, I respect 
 nothing on earth but learning and intellect ; every- 
 thing else is beneath contempt." 
 
 Mme. Roland always tried to deaden the con- 
 stant shocks between father and son ; she turned 
 the conversation, and began talking of a murder 
 committed the week before at Bolbcc Xcnntot. 
 Their minds were immediately full of the circum- 
 stances under which the crime had been com- 
 mitted, and absorbed by the interesting horror, the 
 attractive mystery of crime, which, however com- 
 monplace, shameful, and disgusting, exercises a 
 strange and universal fascination over the curiosity 
 of mankind. Now and again, however, old Ro- 
 land looked at his watch. " Come," said he, " it is 
 time to be going." 
 
 Pierre sneered. 
 
 " It is not yet one o'clock," he said. " It really 
 was hardly worth while to condemn me to eat a 
 cold cutlet." 
 
 " Arc you coming to the Jawyer's ?" his mother 
 asked. 
 
 56
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 "I? No. What for?" he replied dryly. 
 " My presence is quite unnecessary." 
 
 Jean sat silent, as though he had no concern in 
 the matter. \Vhen they were discussing the mur- 
 der at Bolbec he, as a legal authority, had put for- 
 ward some opinions and uttered some reflections 
 on crime and criminals. Now he sj)oke no more ; 
 but the sparkle in his eye, the bright colour in his 
 cheeks, the very gloss of his beard seemed to pro- 
 claim his happiness. 
 
 When the family had gone, Pierre, alone once 
 more, resumed his investigations in the apartments 
 to let. After two or three hours spent in going 
 up and down stairs, he at last found, in the Boule- 
 vard François, a pretty set of rooms ; a spacious 
 entresol with two doors on two different streets, 
 two drawing-rooms, a glass corridor, where his pa- 
 tients while they waited, might walk among flow- 
 ers, and a delightful dining-room with a bow-win- 
 dow looking out over the sea. 
 
 When it came to taking it, the terms — three 
 thousand francs — pulled him up ; the first quarter 
 must be paid in advance, and he had nothing, not 
 a penny to call his own. 
 
 The little fortune his father had saved brought 
 him in about eight thousand francs a year, and 
 Pierre had often blamed himself for having placed 
 
 57
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 his parents in dirficullics by liis lonij^ delay in de- 
 ciding on a j)rofession, by forfeiting his attnnjits 
 and betiinnin;-' fresh C(.)urses of studw So he went 
 awav, promising to senti his answer within two 
 days, and it oeeurretl lo him to ask Jean to K lul 
 him the amount of this (punter's rent, or even of a 
 half-year, fifteen hundred francs, as soon as Jean 
 should have come into possession. 
 
 " It will be a loan for a few months at most," 
 he thought. " I shall repay him, very likely, be- 
 fore the end of the year. It is a simple matter, 
 and he will be glad to do so much for me." 
 
 As it was not yet four o'clock, and he had 
 nothing to do, absolutely nothing, he went to sit 
 in the pul)lic gardens ; and he remained a long 
 time on a bench, without an idea in his brain, liis 
 eyes fixed on the ground, crushed by weariness 
 amounting to distress. 
 
 And yet this was how he had been living all 
 these days since his return home, without suffering 
 so acutely from the vacuity of his existence and 
 from inaction. How had he spent his time from 
 rising in the morning till bed-time ? 
 
 He had loafed on the ])icr at high tide, loafed 
 in the streets, loafed in the cafés, loafed at Marow- 
 sko's, loafed everywhere. And on a sudden this 
 life, which he had endured till now, had become 
 
 3^
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 odious, intolerable. If he had had any pocket- 
 money he would have taken a caniagt- for a h^ng 
 drive in the eouiili\', aloii^' 1)\' the faiin-ditchcs 
 shaded by beech and elm trees; but he had to 
 think twice of tiie cost of a glass of beer or a 
 postage-stamp, and such an indidgence was out of 
 his ken. It suddenly struck him iiow hard it was 
 for a man of past thirty to be reduced to ask his 
 mother, with a blusli, for a twenty-franc piece 
 every now and then ; and he muttered, as lie 
 scored the gravel with the ferule of liis stick : 
 
 " Christi, if I only had money !" 
 
 And again the thought of his brother's legacy 
 came into his head like the sting of a wasj) ; but 
 he drove it out indignantly, not choosing to allow 
 himself to slip down that descent to jealousy. 
 
 Some children were playing about in the dusty 
 paths. They were fair little things with long hair, 
 and they were making little mounds of sand with 
 the greatest gravity and careful attention, to crush 
 them at once by stamping on them. 
 
 It was one of those gloomy days with Pierre 
 when we pry into every corner of our souls and 
 shake out every crease. 
 
 " All our endeavours are like the labours of 
 those babies," thought he. And then he won- 
 dered whether the wisest thing in life were not to 
 
 59
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 bcf^ct two or three of tlicse little creatures and 
 watch tiicni grow uj) with complacent curiosity. 
 A longing for marriage breathed on his soul. A 
 man is not so lost when he is not alone. At any 
 , rale, he hears some one stirring at his side in hours 
 of trouble or of uncertainlv ; and it is something 
 only to be able to speak on c(|ual terms to a 
 woman when one is sufTcring. 
 
 Then he began thinking of women. He knew 
 very little of them, never having had any but very 
 transient connections as a medical student, broken 
 off as soon as the month's allowance was spent, 
 and renewed or replaced by another the following 
 montli. And yet there must be some very kind, 
 gentle, and comforting creatures among them. 
 Had not his mother been the good sense and 
 saving grace of his own home ? How glad he 
 would be to know a woman, a true woman ! 
 
 He started up with a sudden determination to 
 go and call on Mme. Rosémilly. But he promptly 
 sat down again. He did not like that woman. 
 Why not ? She had too much vulgar and sordid 
 common sense ; besides, did she not seem to pre- 
 fer Jean ? Wiiiiout confessing it to himself too 
 bluntly, this preference had a great deal to do 
 with his low opinion of the widow's intellect ; for, 
 though he loved his brother, he could not help 
 
 Co
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 thinking him somewhat mediocre and believing 
 himself the superior. However, he was not going 
 to sit there till nightfall ; and as he had done on 
 the previous evening, he anxiously asked himself : 
 " What am I going to do ? " 
 
 At this moment he felt in his soul the need 
 of a melting mood, of being embraced and com- 
 forted. Comforted — for what? He could not 
 have put it into words ; l)ut he was in one of 
 those hours of weakness and exhaustion when a 
 woman's presence, a woman's kiss, the touch of a 
 hand, the rustle of a petticoat, a soft look out of 
 black or blue eyes, seem the one thing needful, 
 there and then, to our heart. And the memory 
 flashed upon him of a little barmaid at a beer- 
 house, whom he had walked home with one even- 
 ing, and seen again from time to time. 
 
 So once more he rose, to go and drink a bock 
 with the girl. What should he say to her ? What 
 would she say to him ? Nothing, probably. But 
 what did that matter ? He would hold her hand 
 for a few seconds. She seemed to have a fancy 
 for him. W^hy, then, did he not go to see her 
 oftener ? 
 
 He found her dozing on a chair in the beer- 
 shop, which was almost deserted. Three men 
 were drinking and smoking with their elbows on 
 
 6i
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 the oak tables ; the book-keeper in lier desk was 
 readiiiii: a novel, while the master, in his shirt- 
 sleeves, lay sound asleep on a beneh. 
 
 As soon as she saw liiin the girl ruse eagerly, 
 and coming to meet him, said : 
 
 " Good-day, monsieur — how are you ?" 
 
 " Pretty well ; and you ? " 
 
 "I — oh, very well. How scarce you make 
 yourself ! " 
 
 "Yes. I have very little time to myself. I 
 am a doctor, you know." 
 
 "Indeed! You never told me. If 1 had 
 known that — I was out of sorts last week and 
 I would have sent for you. What will you 
 take?" 
 
 " A bock. And you ?" 
 
 " I will have a bock, too, since you arc willing 
 to treat me." 
 
 She had addressed him with the familiar ///, 
 and continued to use it, as if the ofTer of a drink 
 had tacitly conveyed permission. Then, sitting 
 down opposite each other, they talked for a while. 
 Every now and then she took his hand with the 
 light familiarity of girls whose kisses are for sale, 
 and looking at him with inviting eyes she said : 
 
 " Why don't you come here oftener ? I like 
 you very much, sweetheart." 
 
 62
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 He was already disgusted with her ; he saw 
 how stupid she was, and common, smacking of 
 low hfe. A woman, lie told himself, should appear 
 to us in dream, or such a glory as may poetize her 
 vulgarity. 
 
 Next she asked him : 
 
 " You went by the other morning with a hand- 
 some fair man, wearing a big beard, is he your 
 brother ? " 
 
 " Yes, he is my brother." 
 
 " Awfully good-looking." 
 
 " Do you think so?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed ; and he looks like a man who 
 enjoys life, too." 
 
 What strange craving impelled him on a sud- 
 den to tell this tavern-wench about Jean's legacy ? 
 Why should this thing, which he kept at arm's- 
 length when he was alone, which he drove from 
 him for fear of the torment it brought upon his 
 soul, rise to his lips at this moment ? And why 
 did he allow it to overflow them, as if he needed 
 once more to empty out his heart to some one, 
 gorged as it was with bitterness ? 
 
 He crossed his legs and said : 
 
 " He has wonderful luck, that brother of mine. 
 He has just come into a legacy of twenty thousand 
 francs a year." 
 
 63
 
 Pierre aiul [can 
 
 She opened those covetous blue eyes of hers 
 very wide. 
 
 "Oh! and wlio left him that? His grand- 
 mother or his aunt ?" 
 
 " No. An uld friend of my j)arents'." 
 
 " Only a friend ! Impossible ! And you — did 
 he leave you nothing?" 
 
 " No. I knew him very slightly." 
 
 She sat thinking some minutes ; then, with an 
 odd smile on her lips, she said : 
 
 " Well, he is a lucky dog, that brother of yours, 
 to have friends of this pattern. My word ! and no 
 wonder he is so unlike you." 
 
 He longed to slap her, without knowing why ; 
 and he asked with pinched lips: ".Aiul what do 
 you mean by saying that ?" 
 
 She had put on a stolid, innocent face. 
 
 " O — h, nothing. I mean he has better luck 
 than you." 
 
 lie tossed a franc piece on the table and 
 went out. 
 
 Now he kept repealing the phrase : "No 
 wonder he is so unlike you." 
 
 What had her thought been, what had been 
 her meaning under those words? There was cer- 
 tainlv some malice, some spite, somi-thing shame- 
 ful in it. \'es, that hussy must have fancied, no 
 
 64
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 doubt, that Jean was Maréchal's son. The agita- 
 tion which came over him at the notion of this 
 suspicion cast at his mother was so violent tliat he 
 stood still, looking about him for some place 
 where he mijrht sit down. In front of him was 
 another café. He went in, took a chair, and as 
 the waiter came up, " A bock," he said. 
 
 He felt his heart beating, his skin was goose- 
 flesh. And then the recollection flashed upon him 
 of what Marowsko had said the evening before. 
 " It will not look well." Had he had the same 
 thought, the same suspicion as this baggage ? 
 Hanging his head over the glass, he watched the 
 white froth as the bubbles rose and burst, asking 
 himself: " Is it possible that such a thing should 
 be believed ? " 
 
 But the reasons which might give rise to this 
 horrible doubt in other men's minds now struck 
 him, one after another, as plain, obvious, and exas- 
 perating. That a childless old bachelor should 
 leave his fortune to a friend's two sons was the 
 most simple and natural thing in the world ; but 
 that he should leave the whole of it to one alone — 
 of course people would wonder, and whisper, and 
 end by smiling. How was it that he had not fore- 
 seen this, that his father had not felt it? How 
 was it that his mother had not guessed it ? No ; 
 s 65
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 thcv had been too delighted al tliis unhoped-for 
 wealth for the idea to come near tin in. And 
 besides, how should these worthy S(nils have ever 
 dreamed of anything so ignominious ? 
 
 But the public — their neighbours, the shop- 
 keepers, their own tradesmen, all who knew tluni 
 — would not they rejx'at the abominable thing, 
 laugh at it, enjoy it, make game of his father and 
 despise his mother ? 
 
 And the barmaid's remark that Jean was fair 
 and he dark, that they were not in the least alike 
 in face, manner, figure, or intelligence, would now 
 strike every eye and every mind. When any one 
 spoke of Roland's son, the question would be : 
 " Which, the real or the false ?" 
 
 He rose, firmlv resolved to warn Jean, and put 
 him on his guard against the frightful danger 
 which threatened their mother's honour. 
 
 But what could Jean do ? The simplest thing, 
 no doubt, would be to refuse the inheritance, 
 which would then go to the poor, and to UU all 
 friends or acquaintances who had heard of the 
 bequest that the will contained clauses and condi- 
 tions impossible to subscribe to. which would have 
 made Jean not inheritor but nicrcU' a trustee. 
 
 As he made his way home he was thinking 
 that he must sec his brother alone, so as not to 
 
 66
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 speak of such a hkiIUt in the presence of his 
 parents. On rcacliing the door lie heard a j:^reat 
 noise of voices and laiifj^iiler in the drawing-room, 
 and when he went in lie found Captain Beau- 
 sire and Mme. Rosémilly, whom his father had 
 brought home and engaged to dine with them in 
 honour of the good news. \^ermouth and ab- 
 sinthe had been served to whet their appetites, 
 and every one had been at once put into good 
 spirits. Captain Beausire, a funny little man who 
 had become quite round by dint of being rolled 
 about at sea, and whose ideas also seemed to have 
 been worn round, like the pebbles of a beach, 
 while he laughed with his throat full of r's, looked 
 upon life as a capital thing, in which everything 
 that might turn up was good to take. He clinked 
 his glass against father Roland's, w^hile Jean was 
 offering two freshly filled glasses to the ladies. 
 Mme. Rosémilly refused, till Captain Beausire, 
 wdio had known her husband, cried : 
 
 " Come, come, madame, bis rcpctita placent, 
 as we say in the lingo, which is as much as to 
 say two glasses of vermouth never hurt any one. 
 Look at me ; since I have left the sea, in this way 
 I give myself an artificial roll or two every day be- 
 fore dinner ; I add a little pitching after my coffee, 
 and that keeps things lively for the rest of the 
 
 67
 
 Pierre and )can 
 
 evening. I never rise to a hurricane, mind you, 
 never, never. 1 am loo mueli afraitl of damage." 
 
 Roland, wliose nautical mania was humoured 
 by the old mariner, laugiied heart il\', iiis face 
 flushed already and his eye watery from the ab- 
 sinthe, lie had a burly shojvkeeping stomach — 
 nothiuii' but stomach — in which the rest of his 
 body seemed to have got stowed away ; the flabby 
 paunch of men who spend their lives sitting, and 
 who have neither thighs, nor chest, nor arms, nor 
 neck ; the seat of their chairs having accumulated 
 all their substance in one spot. Beausire, on the 
 contrary, though short and stout, was as tight as 
 an egg and as hard as a cannon-ball. 
 
 Mme. Roland had not emptied her glass and 
 was gazing at her son Jean with sparkling eyes; 
 happiness had brought a colour to her cheeks. 
 
 In him, too, the fulness of joy had now blazed 
 out. It was a settled thing, signed and sealed ; 
 he had twenty thousand francs a year. In the 
 sound of his laugh, in the fuller voice with which 
 he spoke, in his way of looking at the otiiers, his 
 more positive manners, his greater confidence, the 
 assurance given by money was at once perceptible. 
 
 Dinner was announced, and as the old man 
 was about to ofTer his arm to Mme. Rosémilly, his 
 wife exclaimed : 
 
 68
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 " No, no, father. Evcrylhing is for Jean to- 
 day." 
 
 Unwonted luxury graced llie table. In front 
 of Jean, who sat in his father's j)lace, an enormous 
 bouquet of flowers intermingled with ribbon 
 favours — a boucjuet for a really great occasion — 
 stood uj) like a cupola dressed with flags, and was 
 flanked by four high dishes, one containing a 
 pyramid of splendid peaches ; the second, a monu- 
 mental cake gorged with whipped cream and cov- 
 ered with pinnacles of sugar — a cathedral in con- 
 fectionery ; the third, slices of pine-apple floating 
 in clear sirup ; and the fourth — unheard-of lavish- 
 ness — black grapes brought from the warmer 
 south. 
 
 " The devil ! " exclaimed Pierre as he sat down. 
 "We are celebrating the accession of Jean the 
 Rich." 
 
 After the soup, Madeira was passed round, and 
 already every one was talking at once. Beausire 
 was giving the history of a dinner he had eaten at 
 San Domingo at the table of a negro general. Old 
 Roland was listening, and at the same time trying 
 to get in, between the sentences, his account of 
 another dinner, given by a friend of his at Men- 
 don, after which every guest was ill for a fortnight. 
 Mme. Rosémilly, Jean, and his mother were plan- 
 
 69
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 nino- an excursion Id breakfast at Saint Jouin, 
 fiDm which tlicy promised themselves the greatest 
 pleasure; and Pierre was only sorry tiiat he had 
 nt)t dined alone in some pol-liouse hy the sea, so 
 as to escape all this noise and laughter and glee 
 which fretted him. He was wondering how lie 
 could now set to work to confide his fears to his 
 brother, and induce him to renounce the fortune 
 he had already accepted and of which he was en- 
 joying the intoxicating foretaste. It would be 
 hard on him, no doubt ; but il must be done ; he 
 could not hesitate; their mother's reputation was 
 at stake. 
 
 The appearance of an enormous shade-fish 
 threw Roland back on fishing stories. Beausire 
 told some wonderful tales of adventure on the 
 Gaboon, at Sainte-Marie, in Madagascar, and above 
 all, off the coasts of China and Japan, where the 
 fish are as queer-looking as the natives. And he 
 described the appearance of these fishes — their 
 goggle gold eyes, their bhie or red bcllits, their 
 fantastic fins like fans, tluir eccentric crescent- 
 shaped tails — wit il such droll gesticulation that 
 they all laughed till they cried as they listened. 
 
 Pierre alone seemed incredulous, muttering to 
 himself: "True enough, the Normans are the 
 Gascons of the north !" 
 
 70
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 After the fish came a vol-au-vent ; then a roast 
 fowl, a salad, French beans with a Pithivicrs lark- 
 pie. Mme. Rosémilly's maid-servant helped to 
 wait on them, and the fun rose wilii the number 
 of glasses of wine they drank. When the cork of 
 the fust champagne-bottle was drawn wilii a })op, 
 father Roland, highly excited, imitated the noise 
 with his tongue and then declared : " I like tiiat 
 noise better than a pistol-shot." 
 
 Pierre, more and more fractious every moment, 
 retorted with a sneer : 
 
 " And yet it is perhaps a greater danger for 
 you." 
 
 Roland, who was on the point of drinking, set 
 his full glass down on the table again, and asked : 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 He had for some time been complaining of his 
 health, of heaviness, giddiness, frequent and unac- 
 countable discomfort. The doctor replied : 
 
 " Because the bullet might very possibly miss 
 you, while the glass of wine is dead certain to hit 
 you in the stomach." 
 
 "And what then?" 
 
 "Then it scorches your inside, upsets your 
 nervous system, makes the circulation sluggish, 
 and leads the way to the apoplectic fit which always 
 threatens a man of your build." 
 
 71
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 The jeweller's ineii>ient intox ieati(Mi IkuI van- 
 ished like smoke before the wind. lie looki'd at 
 his son with fixed, uneasy eyes, trying to discover 
 whether he was making game of him. 
 
 lUit Beausire exclaimed : 
 
 "Oh, these confoimded doctors! They all 
 sing the same tune — eat nothing, drink nothing, 
 never make love or enjoy yourself; it all plays the 
 devil with your precious iiealth. Well, all I can 
 say is, 1 have done all these things, sir, in every 
 quarter of the globe, wherever and as often as 
 I have had the chance, and I am none the worse." 
 
 Pierre answered with some asperity : 
 
 " In the first place, captain, you are a stronger 
 man than my father; and in the next, all free 
 livers talk as you do till the day when — when they 
 come back no more to say to the cautious doctor : 
 • You were right.' When I see my father doing 
 what is worst and most dangerous for him, it is 
 but natural that I should warn him. I should be 
 a bad son if I did otherwise." 
 
 Mme. Roland, much distressed, now ptit in her 
 word: "Come, Pierre, what ails you ? I'or once 
 it cannot hurt him. Think of what an occasion it 
 is for him, for all of us. \'ou will spoil his pleas- 
 ure and make us all unhai)py. It is loo bad of you 
 to do such a thing." 
 
 ^2
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 He muttered, as lie shrugged his shoulders : 
 
 "lie can do as lie j)leases. I have warned 
 iiini." 
 
 But father Roland did not drink. He sat 
 looking at his glass full of the clear and luminous 
 liquor while its light soul, its intoxicating soul, 
 flew off in tiny hubbies mounting from its depths 
 in hurried succession to die on the surface. He 
 looked at it with the suspicious eye of a fox smell- 
 ing at a dead hen and suspecting a traj). lie asked 
 doubtfully : " Do you think it will really do me 
 much harm ? " Pierre had a pang of remorse and 
 blamed himself for letting his ill-humour punish 
 the rest. 
 
 " No," said he. " Just for once you may drink 
 it ; but do not take too much, or get into the habit 
 of it." 
 
 Then old Roland raised his glass, but still he 
 could not make up his mind to put it to his lips. 
 He contemplated it regretfully, with longing and 
 with fear ; then he smelt it, tasted it, drank it in 
 sips, swallowing them slowly, his heart full of ter- 
 rors, of weakness and greediness ; and then, when 
 he had drained the last drop, of regret. 
 
 Pierre's eye suddenly met that of Mme. Rosé- 
 milly ; it rested on him clear and blue, far-seeing 
 and hard. And he read, he knew, the precise 
 
 73
 
 Pierre aiul Jean 
 
 tlîOULîht wliich linked in that look, the indignant 
 thouj^lit of this sinijilc and light-niintlcd little 
 woman; for the look said: "You are jealous — 
 that is what you are. Shameful ! " 
 
 He bent his head ami went on with his dinner. 
 
 He was not iiungry and f(.)und nuihim; niee. 
 A lomrinc: to he off harassed him, a craving to he 
 away from these people, to hear no more of their 
 talking, jests, and laughter. 
 
 Father Roland meanwhile, to whose head the 
 fumes of the wine were rising once more, had al- 
 ready forgotten his son's advice and was eyeing a 
 champagne-bottle with a tender leer as it stood, 
 still nearly full, b\' the side of his plate. He tlared 
 not touch it for fear of being lectured again, and 
 he was wondering by what device or trick he could 
 possess himself of it without exciting Pierre's re- 
 mark. A ruse occurred to him, the simplest pos- 
 sible. He took up the bottle with an air of indif- 
 ference, and holding it by the neck, stretched his 
 arm across the table to fdl the doctor's glass, which 
 was empty; then he fdled up all the other glasses, 
 and when he came to his own he began talking 
 very loud, so that if he jxjured anything into it 
 they might have sworn it was done inadvertently. 
 And in fact no one took any notice. 
 
 Pierre, without observing it, was drinking a 
 74
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 good deal. Nervous and fretted, lie every minute 
 raised to his lips the tall crystal funnel where the 
 bubbles were dancing in the living, translucent 
 fluid. He let the wine slip very slowly over his 
 tongue, tiiat he might feel the little sugary sting 
 of the fixed air as it evaporated. 
 
 Gradually a pleasant warmth glowed in his 
 frame. Starting from the stomach as a centre, it 
 spread to his chest, took possession of his limbs, 
 and diffused itself throughout his flesh, like a 
 warm and comforting tide, bringing pleasure with 
 it. He felt better now, less impatient, less an- 
 noyed, and his determination to speak to his 
 brother that very evening faded away ; not that 
 he thought for a moment of giving it up, but 
 simply not to disturb the happy mood in which 
 he found himself. 
 
 Beausire presently rose to propose a toast. 
 Having bowed to the company, he began : 
 
 " Most gracious ladies and gentlemen, we have 
 met to do honour to a happy event which has be- 
 fallen one of our friends. It used to be said that 
 Fortune was blind, but I believe that she is only 
 short-sighted or tricksy, and that she has lately 
 bought a good pair of glasses which enabled her 
 to discover in the town of Havre the son of our 
 worthy friend Roland, skipper of the Pearl." 
 
 75
 
 Pierre and ]ean 
 
 Every one cried luavo and elaj^jH-d their hands, 
 and tlic elder Rohmd rose to re ply. After clear- 
 ings his throat, for it felt thick and his tongue was 
 heavy, he stammered out : 
 
 "Thank you, captain, thank you — for myself 
 and my son. I shall ne\er forget your behaviour 
 on this occasion. Here's good luck to you !" 
 
 His eyes and nose were full of tears, and he 
 sat down, finding nothing more to say. 
 
 Jean, who was laughing, sjioke in his turn : 
 
 "It is I," said he, "who ought to thank my 
 friends here, my excellent friends," and he glanced 
 at Mme. Rosémilly, "who have given me such a 
 touching evidence of their afïection. But it is 
 not by words that I can prove my gratitutle. I 
 will prove it to-morrow, every hour of my life, 
 always, for our friendship is not one of those 
 which fade away." 
 
 His mother, deej)ly moved, murmured : " Well 
 said, my boy." 
 
 But Beausire cried out : 
 
 " Come, Mme. Rosémilly, speak on behalf of 
 the fair sex." 
 
 She raised her glass, and in a i)retty voice, 
 slightly touched witii sadness, she said: "I will 
 pledge you to the memory of M. Maréchal." 
 
 There was a few moments' lull, a pause for 
 76
 
 Pierre and jeaii 
 
 decent meditation, as after prayer. Beausirc, who 
 always had a flow of conipliniciU, remarked : 
 
 "Only a woman ever thinks of these refine- 
 ments." Then turning- to father Roland: "And 
 who was this Maréchal, after all ? Vou must have 
 been very intimate with him." 
 
 The old man, emotional with drink, began to 
 whimper, and in a broken voice he said : 
 
 " Like a brother, you know. Such a friend 
 as one does not make twice — we were always to- 
 gether — he dined with us every evening — and 
 would treat us to the play — I need say no more 
 — no more — no more. A true friend — a real true 
 friend — wasn't he, Louise ? " 
 
 His wife merely answered : " Yes ; he was a 
 faithful friend." 
 
 Pierre looked at his father and then at his 
 mother, then, as the subject changed, he drank 
 some more wine. He scarcely remembered the 
 remainder of the evening. They had coffee, then 
 liqueurs, and they laughed and joked a great deal. 
 At about midnight he went to bed, his mind con- 
 fused and his head heavy ; and he slept like a 
 brute till nine next morninc:. 
 
 77
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 These slumbers, lapped in Champagne and 
 Chartreuse, had soothed and calmed liini, 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 him- 
 self as well as those from outside. 
 
 It was, in fact, possible that the girl at the 
 beer-shop had had an evil suspicion — a suspicion 
 worthy of such a hussy — on hearing that only one 
 of the Roland 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, when- 
 ever they speak, vilify, calumniate, 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 e.xclaim : " Ah, yes, I know 
 your married women ; a pretty sort they are ! 
 
 78
 
 Pierre and jean 
 
 Why, they have more luvcrs than we have, only 
 they conceal it because they are sucli li}j)ocritcs. 
 Oh, yes, a pretty sort, indeed ! " 
 
 Under any other circumstances he would cer- 
 tainly 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 seethed 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 pos- 
 sible 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, bring- 
 ing back now and then some which were shame- 
 less and repulsive, and which it buried in him, 
 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 jeal- 
 ous ? He suspected himself now, cross-examin- 
 
 /9
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 ing all the mysteries of his niiiid as higots search 
 their consciences. 
 
 Mme. RosL'milly, ihou^h lur intelligence was 
 limited, luul certainly a woman's instinct, sci-nt.ancl 
 subtle intuitions. And this notion had never en- 
 tered her head, since she had, with perfect sim- 
 plicity, drunk to the blessed memory of the 
 deceased Maréchal. She was not the woman to 
 have done this if she had had the faintest susj^i- 
 cion. Now he doubted no longer ; his involuntary 
 displeasure at his brother's windfall of fortune and 
 liis religious afTection for his mother had magnified 
 iiis scruples — very pious and respectable scruples, 
 but exaggerated. As he put this conclusion into 
 words in his own mind he felt hai)!^', as at the 
 doing of a good action ; and he resohed to be nice 
 to every one, beginning with his father, whose 
 manias, 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 humour. 
 
 His mother, finite delighted, said to him : 
 
 "My little Pierre, you have no notion how 
 humorous and clever you can be when you choose." 
 
 And he talked, {uitling things in a witiv way, 
 find making them laugh by ingenious hits at their 
 
 80
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 friends. Bcausirc was liis l)Utt, and Mme. l\.osé- 
 niilly a lit lie, but in a very judicicnis \va\', n(jl too 
 spiteful. And he tlunight as lie looked al his 
 brother : " Stand uj) for her, you mull. 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 in the Pearl to-day ?" 
 
 " No, my boy." 
 
 "May I have her with Jean Bart?" 
 
 " To be sure, as long as you like." 
 
 lie bought a good cigar at the first tobacco- 
 nist's and went down to the quay with a light step. 
 tie glanced up at the sky, which was clear and 
 luminous, of a pale blue, freshly swept by the sea- 
 breeze. 
 
 Papagris, 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. 
 
 " Due east still, M'sieu Pierre. A fine breeze 
 out at sea." 
 
 6 8i
 
 Pierre aiul ]e;in 
 
 " Well, then, old man, ofT wc o;o ! " 
 
 They hoisted the foresail and weighed anchor ; 
 and the boat, feeling iiersclf 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 blind- 
 ing 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 pier 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 Hart 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 sjiinnaker, which was 
 close-reefed against his mast. 
 
 Then, along the hull of the boat, which sud- 
 denly heeled over and was running at top speed, 
 there was a soft, crisp sound of water hissing and
 
 Pierre and jean 
 
 rushing past. The ])ro\v rijipcd up the sea like 
 tlie share of a plough gcjne mad, and ijie yielding 
 water it turned up eurlcd over and fell white with 
 foam, as the ploughed 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 tiie point of the bowsprit to the 
 rudder, which tremi)led under Pierre's hand ; when 
 the wind blew harder in gusts, the swell rose to 
 the gunwale 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 day-dreams, 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 
 
 S3
 
 Pierre and ]e:in 
 
 once in the pretty n^unis on the lioiilevard Fran- 
 çois, i'^ 
 
 Suddenly tlic sailor said : "The fog is coming 
 iij\ M'sieu Pierre. We must go in." 
 
 lie looked up and saw to the northward a 
 gray shade, filmy but dense, blotting out the sky 
 and covering the sea ; it was sweeping down on 
 them like a cloud fallen from above. lie tacked 
 for land and made for the j)ier, scudding 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 shud- 
 der 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 vapour. By the time the boat was at 
 her usual moorings in the harbour the whole town 
 was buried in this fme mist, which ditl 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 himstlf on his bed 
 to take a nap till dinner-time. When lie made 
 his appearance in the dining-room his mother was 
 saying to Jean : 
 
 "The glass corridor will l)e lovelv. We will 
 fdl it with flowers. Vou will see. 1 will under- 
 
 84
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 take to care for them and renew them. When 
 you give a party tlie effect will he (iiiite fairy-like." 
 
 "What in the world are you talking about ?" 
 the doctor asked. 
 
 "Of a deligiitful apartment I have just taken 
 for your brother. It is quite a find ; an entresol 
 looking out on two streets. There are two draw- 
 ing-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, i^r." 
 
 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 any one but him ?" 
 
 His mother, beaming, went on talking : " And 
 only fancy, I got it for two thousand eight hun- 
 dred 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 
 
 «5
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 who lives in such good stylo expects a crood price 
 for his words." 
 
 She was silent for a few seconds ami then 
 went on : 
 
 '• We must look out for something suitable for 
 you; much less pretentious, since you have noth- 
 ing, but nice and jiretty all llu' same. 1 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 : " Ves, 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 Roland looked up and racked his memor)^: 
 "Wait a bit ; I scarcely recollect. It is such 
 an old story now. Ah, yes, I remember. It was 
 your mother who made 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 
 86
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 into them one by one as if lie were spitting them, 
 went on : 
 
 "And when was it tliat you made liis aequaint- 
 ance ?" 
 
 Again Roland sat thinking, but lie eould re- 
 member no more and appealed to his wife's better 
 memory. 
 
 " In what year was it, Louise ? You surely 
 have not forgotten, you who remember every- 
 thing. Let me see — it was in — in — in fifty-five or 
 fifty-six ? Try to remember. You ought to know 
 better than L" 
 
 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." 
 
 Roland exclaimed : 
 
 " To be sure — very true ; he was really invalu- 
 able. When your mother was half-dead with 
 fatigue and I had to attend to the shop, he would 
 go to the chemist's to fetch your medicine. He 
 really had the kindest heart ! And when you were 
 well again, you cannot think how glad he was and 
 
 87
 
 Pierre and |ciin 
 
 iiow he pctlcd you. Il was fiuin thai time lliat 
 we became such great friends." 
 
 And this tliought rushed into Pierre's soul, as 
 abrupt and violent as a cannon-ball rending and 
 piercing it : " Since he knew nie fust, since he was 
 so devoted to me, since he was so fond of me and 
 petted me so much, since 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, 
 the secret germ of a new }iain. 
 
 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 hor- 
 rible savour of this wandering fog. 
 
 Pierre, with his shoulders up and his hands in 
 his j)Ockcts, not caring to remain out of doors in
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 the cold, turned into Marowsko's. The druggist 
 was asleep as usual under the gas-light, which kept 
 watch. On recognising Pierre, for whom he had 
 tlie affection of a faithful dog, lie shook off his 
 drowsiness, went for two glasses, and brought out 
 the Groseillcttc. 
 
 "Well," said the doctor, " iiow is the liqueur 
 getting on ? " 
 
 The Pole explained that four of the chief cafés 
 in the town had agreed to have it on sale, and that 
 two papers, tiie NortJicoast Pharos and the Havre 
 ScmapJiorc, would advertise it, in return for cer- 
 tain chemical preparations to be supj)lied to the 
 editors. 
 
 After a long silence Marowsko asked whether 
 Jean had come definitely into possession of his 
 fortune ; and then he put two or three other ques- 
 tions 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 : " Vou ought not to have suffered him 
 
 89
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 to accept this inhciilancc which will make jKuple 
 speak ill of your mother." 
 
 Perhaps, indeed, Marowsko helievcd that Jean 
 was Maréchal's son. ( )f course he helieved it! 
 How could he helj^ believing- il when the thing 
 must seem so possible, so probable, self-evident ? 
 Whv, he himself, Pierre, her son — had not he been 
 for these three days past lighting with all the sub- 
 tlety 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 Gi'oscilUttc, shook hands with the 
 astounded druggist, and j^lunged out into the fog- 
 gy streets again. 
 
 He asked himself : " What made this Marcehal 
 leave all his fortune to Jean ?" 
 
 It was not jealousv now which made him dwill 
 on tiiis question, not the rather mean but natural 
 envy which he knew linked within him, and with 
 which he had been struggling these three days, but 
 the dread of an overpoweiiiig horror; the dread 
 that he himself should believe that Jean, his brother, 
 was that man's son. 
 
 90
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 No. Ile (litl 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 abso- 
 lute 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 : first to examine 
 the facts ; then I will recall all I know about him, 
 his behaviour to my brother and to me. I will 
 seek out the causes which might have given rise to 
 this 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 mc 
 — unless it were that he felt an instinctive attrac- 
 tion and predilection for my brother as he watched 
 him grow up." 
 
 Then, with desperate tension of brain and of all 
 91
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 the powers of his inlellect, lie strove to reconstitute 
 from memory the imati^c of this Mart-chal, to sec 
 him, to know him, to penetrate the man wliom he 
 had seen pass by him, indifferent to his heart dur- 
 ing all those years in Paris. 
 
 But lie 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 motion- 
 less 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, l)Ut niore long-drawn 
 and steady. It was the roar of a fog-horn, 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 and nerves that he felt as if 
 he had uttered it himself. Another and a similar 
 voice answered with such another moan, but far- 
 ther away ; then, close by, the fog-horn on the 
 I)icr gave out a fearful sound in answer. Pierre 
 made for the jetty with long steps, thinking no 
 more of anything, content to walk on into this 
 ominous and bellowing darkness. 
 
 93
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 When he liad seated himself at the end of the 
 breakwater he closed iiis eyes, that he mi^dit not 
 sec the two electric lights, now blurred by the 
 fog, which make 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 word with 
 his lij)s, his mind kept repeating : " Maréchal — 
 Maréchal," as if to raise and challenge the shade. 
 And on the black background of his closed eye- 
 lids, 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 pleas- 
 ant, 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, 
 asking them both together to dine with him. And 
 then Pierre, with the pertinacity 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 Rue Tronchet, where he re- 
 ceived his brother and himself at dinner. 
 
 93
 
 Pierre and jean 
 
 lie was waiifd on l>y two maids, holh old 
 women who had bc-cii in the habit — a very old 
 one, no doubt — of saying " Monsieur Pierre" and 
 "Monsieur jevUi." Mareehal would hold out both 
 hands, tiie right hand to one of the young nun, 
 the left to the other, as they haj)i)ened to come in. 
 
 " IIow are you, my children?" he would say. 
 "Have you any news of your jiarcnts ? As for 
 mc, they never write to me." 
 
 The talk was quiet and intimate, of common- 
 place 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 wc 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 impecunious- 
 ness, Maréchal had of his own accord oiïered and 
 lent him money, a few hundred francs perhaps, 
 forgotten by both, and never repaid. Then this 
 man must always have l>een fond of him, always 
 liavc taken an interest in iiini, since he thoULiht 
 of his needs. Well then— well then— why leave 
 his whole fortune to Jean ? No, he had never 
 shown any more marked afTection for the younger 
 
 94
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 than for (lie elder, had never been more interested 
 in one than in the other, or 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 
 difTercncc 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 recol- 
 lections. 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 slighter, and had a soft hand, and 
 that he often brought flowers. Veiy often — for 
 his father would constantly say ; " What, another 
 
 95
 
 Pierre aiul ]can 
 
 bouquet ! But this is madness, my dear fellow ; 
 you will ruin yourself in roses." And Maréchal 
 would sav : " No matter ; I like it." 
 
 And suddenly his mother's voice and accent, 
 his mother's as she smiled and said: "Thank you, 
 mv kind friiMul," Hashed on his brain, so clearly 
 that he couKl 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 gentle- 
 man, the rich man, the customer, to the humble 
 shop-keeper, the jeweller's wife. Mad 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 
 refmed tastes. How many a time had he discussed 
 poets and poetry with Pierre. He did not appre- 
 ciate these writers from an artistic point of view, 
 but with sympathetic antl 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 Maréciial \\\cu, Ixing young, dec, rich,
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 ready for any form of k'lulcrncss, went by cliancc 
 into tlic sliop one day, having perhaps observed its 
 pretty mistress. lie liad l)ou_L,dit something, liad 
 come again, had chatted, moie intimately eaeli 
 time, paying by frequent purciiases for the right of 
 a seat in the family, of smiling at the young wife 
 and shaking hands with the husl)and. 
 
 And what next — what next — good God — what 
 next ? 
 
 He had loved and petted the fust 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 noth- 
 ing 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 under- 
 stood and foreseen that he might, that he almost 
 infallibly must, give grounds for the supposition 
 that the child was his. He was casting obloquy on 
 a woman. I low 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 
 7 9;
 
 Pierre aiul Jean 
 
 j^ortrait lie luul seen foi incih' in I\iiis, on (lie 
 drawing-room chinincv-slulf, and wliirli had since 
 disappeared. Wluio was it? Lost, oi- hidden 
 awav ? Oh, if he could hut have il in his hand for 
 one minute ! I lis motluM' k([)t it jxrhips in the 
 unconfcsscd drawer where lo\e-tokens were treas- 
 ured. 
 
 His misery at this thought was so intense that 
 he uttered a groan, one of those brief moans wrung 
 from the breast by a too intolerable pang. And i 
 
 immediately, as if it had heard him, as if it had Î 
 
 understood and answered him, the fog-horn on the 
 \)\cr 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 clamour of the wind and waves — 
 spread through the darkness, across the sea, which i 
 
 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 steam-ships. j 
 
 Then all was silent once more. j 
 
 Pierre had opened his evc-s and was looking j 
 
 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 
 
 98
 
 Pierre and jean 
 
 repentance, and prayer, and p^ricf, welled up in his 
 heart. Mis mother ! Knowing her as he knew 
 her, how could he ever iiave suspected lier? Was 
 not the soul, was not the life of this simple-minded, 
 chaste, and loyal woman clearer than water? 
 Could any one who had seen and known her ever 
 think of her hut 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, too, with a delicate, tender, 
 emotional soul, could have accepted a man so un- 
 like herself as a suitor and a husband ? ^Vhy 
 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 interests in common which fills 
 
 99
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 tlic place of lovo, and even of rcp^ard, l)y the do- 
 mestic hearth of most of the coniimicial liouses 
 of Paris, liad set to wuriv, with all Ik r superior 
 and active intelligence, to make the fortune they 
 hoped for. And so her life had (lowed on, uni- 
 form, 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, apj)lauding 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 any one 
 else ; why should she be different from all others, 
 though she was his mother? 
 
 She had been young, with all the poetic weak- 
 nesses which agitate the heart of a young creature. 
 Shut up, imprisoned in the shop, by the side of a 
 vuljiar husband who alwavs 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 her- 
 self to him ? Why yes, since this man had had no 
 
 I GO
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 other love, since lie luid remained failiiful to her 
 when she was far away and p^rowin^^ old. Why 
 yes, since he had left all his fortune to his son — 
 their son ! 
 
 And Piirre started to his feet, quivering with 
 sueh rage that he longed to kill some one. Willi 
 his arm outstretched, his hand wide oi)en, lie 
 wanted to hit, to bruise, to smash, to strangle ! 
 Whom ? Every one ; 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 fog-horn 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 look-out man, the hoarse voice of an old re- 
 tired sea-captain, shouted : 
 
 ••What ship?" And out of the fog the voice 
 
 lOI
 
 I'^icrrc and ]can 
 
 of I Ik- pilot staiulin»^^ on deck — nut less hoarse — 
 replied : 
 
 " The Santa Lucia." 
 " Where from ?" 
 " Italy." 
 "What port?" 
 •• Naples." 
 
 And before Pierre's bewildered eyes rose, as he 
 fancied, the fiery pennon of W-suvius, while, at the 
 foot of the volcano, lire-llies danced in the orange- 
 groves of Sorrento or Castellamare. 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 whither, and never come 
 back, never write, never let any one know what 
 had become of him ! But no, he must go home — 
 home to his father's house, and go to bed. 
 
 He would not. Come what might he would 
 not go in ; he would stay there till daybreak. He 
 liked the roar of the fog-horns. He pulled him- 
 self together and began to walk up and down like 
 an ofTiccr on watch. 
 
 Another vessel was coming in bcliind the 
 other, huge and mysterious. An Knglish India- 
 man, homeward bound. 
 
 He saw several more come in, one after an- 
 other, out of the impenetrable vapour. Tiien, as 
 
 102
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 tiic damp became (iiiilc iiilolciahlc, Picirc set out 
 towards the town. Ile was so e(jld tlial he went 
 into a sailors' tavern to drink a glass of grog, and 
 when the hot and pungent licjuor had seorehed his 
 mouth and throat he felt a hope revive wilhiii 
 him. 
 
 Perhaps he was mistaken. He knew his own 
 vagabond unreason 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 tliink difïerently. 
 
 Then he went in and to bed, and by sheer force 
 of will he at last dropped asleep. 
 
 103
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 But the doctor's frame lay scarcely more than 
 an hour or two in the torpor of troubled slum- 
 bers. When he awoke in the darkness of his 
 warm, closed room, he was aware, even before 
 thought was awake in him, of the painful oppres- 
 sion, the sickness of heart which the sorrow wc 
 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 fog-horns 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. 
 
 lie was tliirsty and hot, his heart beat wildly. 
 He got up to open his window and Ijrcatiie the 
 fresh air, and as he stood there a low sound fell 
 
 1 04
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 on liis car througli ihc wall. Jean was sleeping 
 peacefully, and gently snoring. He could sleep! 
 He had no presentiment, no suspicions! A man 
 wiio 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 con- 
 tented, 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 waking : 
 
 "Jean, you must not keep this legacy which 
 by to-morrow may have brought suspicion and 
 dishonour on our mother." 
 
 But to-day 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 
 
 105
 
 Pierre and jean 
 
 looked at Ikt lluit his hrulhcr was the lIuKI uf a 
 stranger's lo\ c ? 
 
 And how cahn and serene she was, ne\'eil lie- 
 less, how sure of lierself she always seemed ! 
 Was it possible that sueh a woman as she, pure 
 of soul and upright in heart, should fall, dragged 
 astray hv passion, and yet nothing ever apj)car 
 afterward of her remorse and the stings of a 
 troubled conscience ? Ah, hut 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 
 recognise the man to whose kisses they have 
 given their lips? The kiss strikes like a thunder- 
 bolt, 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 weigh on liis head, and the 
 walls sufTocatc him. And as he was very thirsty 
 he lighted his candle (o go to drink a glass of 
 fresh water from the Idler in the kitchen. 
 
 106
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 He went down the two flights of stairs ; then, 
 as he was coming uj) again with the water-bottle 
 filled, he sat down, in his night-shirt, on a stej) of 
 the stairs where there was a draught, and drank, 
 without a tumbler, in long pulls like a runner who 
 is out of breath. When he ceased to move the si- 
 lence 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, laboured, and hard, his father 
 beyond doubt ; and he writhed at the idea, as if it 
 had 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 be- 
 tween them. This paternal love, this filial love, 
 were the outcome of a lie — a lie which could not 
 
 107
 
 Pierre and jean 
 
 be unmasked, and whieli no one would ever know 
 but lie, the true son. 
 
 Hut yet, but }et — if he were mistaken ? How 
 could he make sure ? ( )h, if only some likeness, 
 however slight, could be traced between his father 
 and Jian, one of those mysterious resemblances 
 which lun fioni an ancestor to tiie L,n'eat-<j;;reat- 
 grandson, showing that the whole race are the ofT- 
 spring of the same embrace. To him, a medical 
 man, so little would sufTice to enable him to dis- 
 cern this — the curve of a nostril, the space between 
 the eyes, the character of the teeth or hair ; nay 
 less — a gesture, a trick, a habit, an inherited taste, 
 any mark or token which a practised eye might 
 recognise as characteristic. 
 
 He thought long, but could remember noth- 
 ing ; no, nothing. Dut 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 al his leisure, to sur- 
 prise iiim in his sleep, while the calm countenance 
 and rela.xed features were at rest and all the gri- 
 
 io8
 
 I^ierrc and |can 
 
 mace of life pul off. Tliiis lie iniirht catch tlic 
 (lornianl secret of his physiognomy, and if any 
 appreciable Hkcncss existed it wouhl not escape 
 liim. 
 
 But supposinu^ Jean were to wake, what could 
 he say? IIow could he exi)lain this intrusion? 
 
 He stood still, his fingers clinclied on tiie 
 door-handle, trying to devise a reason, an excuse. 
 Then he remembered that a week ago he had lent 
 his brother a j)hial 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 with a stealthy step, like a robber. Jean, 
 his mouth open, was sunk in deep, animal slum- 
 bers. 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 Roland ; and for the second time the 
 recollection of the little portrait of Maréchal, 
 which had vanished, recurred to his mind. He 
 must find it ! When he should sec 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 tip-toe to the 
 
 109
 
 PiLire iiiul jean 
 
 door which lie noiselessly closed ; ihcn lir wcmU 
 back to his room, \n\l not to bed aj^ain. 
 
 Day was lon<^^ in coming Tlic hours struck 
 one after anollicr on the (linin<:::-rooni clock, and 
 its tone was a cki'i) antl solemn one, as though 
 the little piece of clockwork had swallowed a 
 cathcdral-bell. The sound rose through the empty 
 staircase, penetrating through walls and doors, and 
 dying away in the rooms where it fell on the tor- 
 pid 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 every-day life 
 which he must take up again. 
 
 Well, he would go over to Trouvillc to see the 
 swarming crowd on the sands. That wouKl anuisc 
 him, change the air of his thoughts, and give him 
 lime to inure himself to the horrible thing he had 
 discovered. As soon as morning dawned he made 
 iiis toilet and dressed. The fog had vanished and 
 it was fine, very fine. As the boat for Trou\ille 
 did not start till nine, it struck the doctor that he 
 must greet his mother before starting. 
 
 He waited till the lioiir at which she was ac- 
 
 IIO
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 customed io ^c't up, and lluii wciil down-slairs. 
 Ilis licarl beat so violently as he touclicd li< i- dnor 
 that he j)ause(l for hrcall). Ilis hand as it lay on 
 the lock was limp and tremulous, almost incapahle 
 of the slight effort of turning the handle to ojK-n 
 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 Trouviilc 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, with- 
 out pressing on her cheek the false kiss which it 
 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 handkerchief by 
 way of night-cap and his face to the wall, still lay 
 
 III
 
 Pierre and )can 
 
 sleeping:. NothiiiL:: vvvv wola- liim luit a ^Iiakini^ 
 hard enough to i)iill his aim cff. ( )n tlic days 
 when lie went lisliiui^ il was j()sc|)liiiR', iuiil,'' uj) 
 by Papagris at the lioiir IimhI, who ruused Ikt 
 master from liis stul)l)()in shiiiduMS. 
 
 Pierre, as he went towards his niotiier, looked 
 at her with a sudden sense of never having seen 
 her before. She hcKl uj) her faee, he kissed each 
 cheek, and then sat down in a low ehair. 
 
 "It was last eveniiiG^ 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 stupehed 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 — abrujitly 
 struck him as new, difTerent from what thev had 
 always been to him hitherto. Ile understood 
 now that, loving her, he had never looked at her. 
 All the same it was very really she, and he knew 
 every little detail of her face ; still, it was the first 
 time he clearly idcMitified them all. I lis anxious 
 attention, scrutinizing her face which he loved, rc- 
 
 112
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 called a différence, u j)h\si()gnuniy lie liatl never 
 before discerned. 
 
 Ile rose to go ; then, suddenly yielding to the 
 invincible longing to know which iiad been gnaw- 
 ing 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 — stay ; 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 v.-ant 
 it for ? " 
 
 " Oh, it was 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 arc 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 streets seemed in good spirits, 
 the merchants going to business, the clerks going 
 
 s I I Î
 
 Pierre aiui jcan 
 
 to their oiïicc, tlic girls goiui,^ lo lluir shop. Some 
 sang as tlicv went, cxhilaralcJ hy the bright 
 weather. 
 
 The passengers were already going on board 
 the Trouville boat ; Pierre took a seat aft on a 
 wooden bench. 
 
 lie asked himself : 
 
 '• Now was she uneasy at my asking for the 
 portrait or only surprised ? Has she mislaid it, or 
 has she hidden it ? Does she know where it is, or 
 does she not ? If she has hidaen it — why ?" 
 
 And his mind, still following uji the same line 
 of thought from one deduction to another, came to 
 this conclusion : 
 
 That portrait — of a friend, of a lover, had re- 
 mained ii^the drawing-room in a conspicuous place, 
 till one day when the wife and mother perceived, 
 first of all and before any one 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 begin- 
 nings, and understanding that any one 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 tliat it was 
 long, long before they left Paris that the miniature 
 
 114
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 had vanished. U IkkI disappeared, he thought, 
 about the time that Jean's beard was beginning 
 to grow, whieli had made him suddenly and won- 
 derfully 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 piers, turned to the left, and puffing and snort- 
 ing 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 Seine, rolling down from Rouen, 
 seemed a wide inlet dividing two neighbouring 
 lands. They reached the harbour of Trouville 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 Roches Noires, 
 sun-shades of every hue, hats of every shape, 
 dresses of every colour, in groups outside the bath- 
 ing huts, in long rows by the margin of the waves, 
 or scattered here and there, really looked like im- 
 mense bouquets on a vast meadow. And the 
 
 115
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 Babel of sounds — voices near and far ringing thin 
 in the light atmosphere, shuuls and eiiesof chil- 
 ihen being bathed, clear laughter of women — all 
 made a pleasant, continuous din, mingling with 
 the unheeding breeze, and brealiied with the air 
 itself. 
 
 Pierre walked on 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 tiie 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 si)oke to 
 the women, and the women smiled at the men. 
 Then, suddenly, as if he had awoke, he j)erceived 
 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, wan- 
 derin": round them full of a fresh set of ideas. All 
 these many-hued dresses which covered the sands 
 like nosegays, these pretty stuffs, those showy para- 
 sols, the fictitious grace of tightened waists, all the 
 ingenious devices of fashion from tlie 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 stuj)endous efilorescences of female de- 
 
 ii6
 
 Pierre and )can 
 
 pravity. yXll these Ixdizcii' '1 women aimed at 
 plcasin,^;, beuilcliiui^r, and dtludin^r some man. 
 They liad dressed themselves out for men — iov all 
 men— all exeeplin^; the husband whom the)- no 
 longer needed to conciuer. Tiuy had dressed 
 themselves out for the lover of yesterday and the 
 lover of to-morrow, for the stran,o;cr ijiey mi^dit 
 meet and notice or were perhaps on the look- 
 out for. 
 
 And these men silting close to them, eye to 
 eye and mouth to mouth, invited them, desired 
 them, hunted them like game, coy and elusive not- 
 withstanding 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 them- 
 selves — 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 ? No. For there were excep- 
 tions — many, very many. These women he saw 
 about him, rich, giddy, love-seeking, belonged on 
 the wdiole to the class of fashionable and showy 
 women of the world, some indeed to the less re- 
 
 117
 
 Pierre and jean 
 
 spcctablc sistcrliood, for on these sands, tramjilcd 
 by the legion of idlers, the tribe of viituous, home- 
 keeping women were not to be seen. 
 
 The tide was rising, driving the foremost rank 
 of visitors gradually landward. Ile saw the vari- 
 ous groups jump up and fly, carrying their chairs 
 with them, before the yellow waves as they rolled 
 u}) edged with a lace-like frill of foam. The bath- 
 ing-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 peojile 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 break- 
 fast at a modest tavern on the skirts of the fields. 
 
 When he had finished with cofl"ee, he stretched 
 his legs on a couple of chairs under a lime-tree in 
 front of the house, and as he had hardly slejit the 
 night before, he presently fell into a doze. After 
 resting for some hours he shook himself, and find- 
 ing 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 j)ortrait of Maréchal. 
 
 n8
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 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 minia- 
 ture. 
 
 But when he was at home again, and in his 
 room, he hesitated about going down to dinner. 
 tie 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 Roland, "are you getting on 
 with your purchases ? I do not want to see any- 
 thing till it is all in its place." 
 
 And his wife replied : " Oh, yes. We are get- 
 ting 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 
 
 119
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 is sliown into iiis counsel's wailinn-mom he should 
 have a sense of wealth. 
 
 Jean, on the other hand, wishing to attract 
 only an elec^ant and ()j)ulcnt class, was anxious to 
 cajitivate persons of rclincnicnt by his (luict and 
 perfect taste. 
 
 And this discussion, which had gone on all day, 
 began again with the soup. 
 
 Roland 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." 
 
 Mme. Roland appealed to the jutlgnient of her 
 elder son. 
 
 "And you, Pierre, what do you think of the 
 matter?" 
 
 His nerves were in a state of such intense ex- 
 citement 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 noth- 
 ing so well as simplicity, which, in matters of 
 taste, is equivalent to rectitude in matters of 
 conduct." 
 
 I lis 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." 
 
 120
 
 Pierre and )ean 
 
 Pierre replied : 
 
 "What docs that matter? Is that a reason 
 for living as fools do? If my fcllow-townsmcn 
 are stupid and ill-bred, need I follow their exam- 
 ple ? A woman does not misconduct herself be- 
 cause her neighbour has a lover." 
 
 Jean began to laugh. 
 
 " You argue by comparisons which 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 arm- 
 chairs. 
 
 He sat looking at them as he had looked at 
 his mother in the morning before starting for 
 Trouville ; looking 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 besot- 
 ted, was his own father ! No, no ; Jean was not 
 in the least like him. 
 
 His family ! 
 
 Within these two days an unknown and malig- 
 nant hand, the hand of a dead man, had torn asun- 
 der and broken, one by one, all the ties which had 
 held these four human beings together. It was 
 
 121
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 all over, all ruincil. \\c had now no mother — for 
 he couKl no Innocr love her now that he could nol 
 revere her witii that jicrfect, tender, and pious re- 
 spect which a son's love demands; no hrother — 
 since his brother was the child of a stranger ; 
 nothinjT was left him hut 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 por- 
 trait?" 
 
 She opened her eyes in surprise. 
 
 "What portrait?" 
 
 "The portrait of Maréchal." 
 
 " No — that is to say — yes — I have not found 
 it, but I think I know where it is." 
 
 "What is that? "asked Roland. And Pierre 
 answered : 
 
 "A little likeness of Maréchal which used to 
 be in the dining-room in Paris. I thought that 
 Jean mi<^ht be glad to have it." 
 
 Roland exclaimed : 
 
 " Why, yes, to be sure ; I remember it per- 
 fectly. I saw it again last week. Vour 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 yuur side 
 
 122
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 with a pile of letters of which you burned lialf. 
 Strange, isn't it, tiiat you siioukl iiave come across 
 that portrait only tn'o or three days before Jean 
 heard of his legacy? If I believed in j)resenti- 
 ments I should think that this was one." 
 
 Mme. Roland 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 let- 
 ters — 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 shoul- 
 ders 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, 
 
 ^23
 
 Pierre aiul )eaii 
 
 reveal notliinu;. lie was lur son; he had no 
 veniicanee lu take. .Anil he hail not \)vv\\ de- 
 ccived. 
 
 Nay, but she had deceived his tenderness, his 
 pious respect. She owed to him tu be without 
 reproach, as all mothers owe it tu 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 towards his father. 
 
 The love of man and wife is a vuluntary com- 
 pact 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 intrusted 
 her with a race. If she fails, then she is cowardly, 
 worthless, infamous. 
 
 " I do not care," said Roland suddenly, stretch- 
 ing out his legs under the table, as he did every 
 evening while he sipj^ed his glass of black-currant 
 brandy. " Vou may do worse than live idle- when 
 you have a snug little income. I huj^e Jean will 
 have us to dinner in style now. Hang it all ! if I 
 have indigestion now and then 1 cannot lidp it." 
 
 Then turning to his wife he atldcd : 
 
 "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 
 124
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 an absence which Picric ihouqht Ion<;-, thouL,di she 
 was not away mure than thitt: minutes, Mme. Ro- 
 hnul returned smiHiiij,', and holding an old-fasii- 
 ioncd gilt fmmc by I lie ring. 
 
 " Here it is," said she, " I found it at once." 
 The doctor was the first to put forth his hand ; 
 he took tlic 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 terril)le 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 sufficient- 
 ly 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. 
 
 12;
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 "Hand it on to nu-," said Ixoland. 
 
 Picric licld out tlic miniature and his father 
 drew the candle towards him to sec it better ; then 
 lie murmured in a j)athetic tone : 
 
 " Poor fellow ! To think that he was like that 
 when we fust knew him ! Crist i ! How time 
 flics ! He was a ^ood-looking man, too, in those 
 days, anil with such a pleasant manner — was not 
 he, 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 tleath-bed he did not forget us." 
 
 Jean, in his turn, held out his hand for the 
 j)ielure. He gazed at it for a few minutes and 
 then said regretfully : 
 
 " I do not recognise it at all. I only remem- 
 ber him with white hair." 
 
 He returned the miniature to his mother. She 
 cast a hasty glance at it, lookinjj: away again as 
 if she were frightened ; then in her usual voice 
 she said : 
 
 " It belongs to 3'ou nr)\v, mv little Jean, as you 
 arc his heir. We will take it to your new rooms." 
 
 126
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 And when they went into the drawing-room she 
 placed tlie picture on the cliinmey-shelf hy the 
 clock, where it had formerly stood. 
 
 Roland lilled his pij)e ; Pierre and Jcc.n li<;lited 
 cigarettes. They commonly smoked them, Pierre 
 while he paced the room, Jean, sunk in a deep 
 arm-chair, with his legs crossed. Their father al- 
 ways sat astride a chair and spat from afar into the 
 fire-place. 
 
 Mme. Roland, on a low seat by a little table 
 on which the lanij) 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 swift- 
 ly 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 little 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 
 borne, 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 
 127
 
 Pierre aiu! Jean 
 
 knows tluU I gucss ! " Aiui cacli time lie reached 
 llie lire-place he stojipcil for a few seconds lo luuk 
 at Marcchal's fair hair, and show (juite j)lainly that 
 he was haunted by a fixed idea. So that this little 
 portrait, smaller than an openetl palm, was like a 
 living being, malignant and threatening, suddenly 
 brought into this house and tiiis family. 
 
 Presently the street-door bell rang. Mme. 
 Roland, always so self-possessed, started violently, 
 betraying to her doctor son the anguish of her 
 nerves. Then she said : " It must be Mme. Rosé- 
 milly ;" 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 v;it 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 like- 
 ness between this face and Jean. Then she would 
 know and understand everything. 
 
 He was seized with dread, a sudden and hor- 
 ril)le dread of this shame being uiuiilcd, and, 
 turning about just as the door opened, he 
 took the little painting and slipjxxl it under the 
 clock without being seen by his father and 
 brother. 
 
 128
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 When lie met his mother's eyes a^niin tliey 
 seemed to liim altered, dim, and haggard. 
 
 "Good evening," said Mme. Rosémilly. "I 
 have come to ask you (nv a eup of tea." 
 
 But while they were bustling about her and 
 asking after her health, Pierre made ofï, the dcjor 
 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!" 
 
 Mme. Roland replied : " You must not be 
 vexed with him ; he is not very well to-day and 
 tired with his excursion to Trouville." 
 
 " Never mind," said Roland, " that is no reason 
 for taking himself off like a savage." 
 
 Mme. Rosémilly tried to smooth matters by 
 saying: "Not at all, not at all. He has gone 
 away in the English fashion ; people always dis- 
 appear 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 à 
 r Anglaise, and my brother has done nothine else 
 for some time past." 
 
 129
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 Fc^R a week or two nolliiiiLr occurml at the 
 Roland's. The father went fishincr ; Jean, with his 
 niullier's lielp, was furnishinc^ and settling himself; 
 Pierre, very gloomy, never was seen excepting at 
 meal-times. 
 
 Tlis 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 doctor replied : " The fact is I am ter- 
 ribly conscious of the burden of life." 
 
 The old man had not a notion what ne 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, every one seems 
 unhappy. It is as though some accident had be- 
 fallen us, as if we were in mourning for some one." 
 
 " I am in mourning for some one," said Pierre. 
 
 " Vou are ? I-'or whom ? " 
 
 " For some one you never knew, and of whom 
 I was too fcjnd." 
 
 130
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 Roland iiiKii^iiK'd lliat liis S(;n alluded t(j some 
 girl with whom lie had had some love passages, 
 and he saitl : 
 
 "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. 
 
 Mme. Roland 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 your- 
 self a little rest. Sacristi ! The rascal is in no 
 hurry, as he is a rich man." 
 
 She shook her head without a word. 
 
 But to-day her pallor was so great that Roland 
 remarked on it again. 
 
 " Come, come," said he, " this will not do at 
 131
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 all. niv dear old woman. \'ou iiuist take care of 
 yourself." TlKn, addressing his son, " You surely 
 must see that your mother is ill. 1 lave you (jues- 
 tioned her, at any rate?" 
 
 Pierre replied: "No; I had not noticed that 
 there was anything the matter with her." 
 
 .•\t this Roland was angry. 
 
 " But it stares you in tiie face, confound you ! 
 \Vhat 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 doc- 
 tor would never think there was an \" thing the 
 matter ! " 
 
 Mme. Roland 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 di- 
 rectly — it is nothing." 
 
 Pierre had gone uj) to her and was looking at 
 her steadily. 
 
 " What ails you ?" he said. And she repeated 
 in an undertone : 
 
 " Nothing, nothing — I assure you, nothing." 
 
 Roland had gone to fetch some vinegar ; he 
 now returned, and handing the bottle to his son 
 he said : 
 
 132
 
 Pierre and ]can 
 
 " Here — do sunicLliing lo cusc her. Have you 
 felt lier heart?" 
 
 As l-'icrre bent over her to feel lier pulse 
 she pulled away her hand so vehemently that 
 she struck it against a chair which was stand- 
 ing by. 
 
 " Come," said he in icy tones, " let mc see what 
 I can do for you, as you are ill." 
 
 Then she raised her arm and held it out to 
 him. lier 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. 
 
 Roland, quite distracted, asked her : 
 
 *' Louise, Louise, what is the matter with you ? 
 What on earth ails you ?" 
 
 She did not answer, but seemed racked by 
 some deep and 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. 
 133
 
 Pierre aiul Jean 
 
 " But wliat is ihc matter with lui? I luvcr 
 saw \\cv like this." 
 
 "It is nothiiiL;-," said Pierre, "she is a little 
 hysterical." 
 
 And he felt as if it were a comfort to him to 
 sec her sufTcrinc: thus, as if this anuuish miticfated 
 his resentment and diminished his mother's load of 
 opprobrium. I le 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 fore- 
 stall or to stop her, and ran off to lock herself into 
 her room. 
 
 Roland 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 ner- 
 vous 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 clew 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 bein hilled 
 for a moment. 
 
 But he, too, was sufTering as cruelly as she. It 
 134
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 was dreadful pain to him tlial lie 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 him- 
 self into the sea and put an end to it all by drown- 
 ing himself. 
 
 Ah ! I low 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, fri^-htcncd, and 
 bewildered — he struck at her in spite of himself, 
 unable to suppress the treacherous words which 
 would rise to his lips. 
 
 The 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 docf. 
 
 And there was no one in the way now to hin- 
 135
 
 Pierre and ]caa 
 
 dcr his roadini^ lier; Jimu lived almost enlircly in 
 liis new aparlnicius, aiul only came iiomc lu dinner 
 and lo sleep every night at his father's. 
 
 He frequently observed his brother's biilerncss 
 and violence, and attributed them to jealousy. He 
 promised himself that some da}- he would leach 
 him his i)lace and j^ivc 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 sufTered less from this brutal conduct, 
 and his love of peace prompted him to patience. 
 His good fortune, too, had turned 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 bed-room 
 cupboard to keep linen on, the pegs to be put up 
 in the entrance hall, the electric bells contrived to 
 prevent illicit visitors to his lodgings. 
 
 It had been settled that on the day when he 
 should take up his abode there thev should make 
 an excursion to Saint Jouin, and return after 
 dining there, to drink tea in his rooms. Roland 
 wanted to go by water, but the distance and the 
 
 136
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 uncertainty of reaching it in a sailing hcjat if there 
 slioiilil l)e a head-wind, made them reject liis j)lan, 
 and a break was hired for tlie day. 
 
 They set out at ten to get there to breakfast. 
 The dusty high road lay across the plain of Nor- 
 mandy, 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 j)air of heavy horses, sat 
 the four Rolands, Mme. Rosémilly, and Captain 
 Beausire, 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 beet-root, 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 see-sawing as they swept 
 the level soil with the broad, wing-shaped blade. 
 
 After a two-hours' drive the break turned off 
 to the left, past a windmill at work — a melan- 
 choly, gray wreck, half rotten and doomed, the 
 last survivor of its ancient race ; then it went 
 into a pretty inn yard, and drew up at the door 
 
 137
 
 IMcrrc aiul [can 
 
 of a smart little iu)usc, a luislcliy famous in those 
 parts. 
 
 Tlic mistress, well known as " La hillc Al- 
 phonsinc," came smilinj^ to the threslu)ld, 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 b\- apple 
 trees — Parisians, who had come from Ktrelat ; 
 and from the house came sounds of voices, laugh- 
 ter, and the clatter of plates and })ans. 
 
 They were to eat in a room, as the outer din- 
 ing-halls were all full. Roland suddenly caught 
 sight of some shrimping nets hanging against the 
 wall. 
 
 •'Ah! ha!" cried he, "you catch prawns 
 here ? " 
 
 "Yes," replied Beausire. "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. 
 
 Tiiey made a li,L,dit breakfast, as a precaution 
 against the tendency of blood to the head when 
 
 138
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 they should have their fccL in the water. T\\vy 
 also wished to reserve an appetite for diinur, 
 whieh had l)een ordered on a grand seale 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 
 butterllies 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. 
 Alphonsine, still smiling, was happy to lend them. 
 Then she helped the two ladies to make an im- 
 promptu 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 shoemaker's to buy 
 wooden shoes instead. 
 
 Then they set out, the nets over their shoul- 
 ders and creels on their backs. Mme. Rosémilly 
 was very sweet in this costume, with an unex- 
 pected charm of countrified audacity. The skirt 
 which Alphonsine 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 
 
 139
 
 to cover lu r li(\ul slic luul fouiul ;in enormous gar- 
 den hat of coarse yellow straw wiili an extrava- 
 gantly broad brim ; and to this, a bunch of tam- 
 arisk pinned in to cock it on one side, gave a very 
 dashing and military cfTect. 
 
 Jean, since he had come into his fortune, had 
 asked himself every day whether or no he should 
 marry her. Each time he sav/ her he made uj) his 
 mind to ask her to be his wife, and then, as soon 
 as he was alone again, he considered that by wait- 
 ing he would have lime to rellect. 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 Havre; and this by- 
 and-bye might be worth a great deal. Their for- 
 tunes were thus approximately equal, and certainly 
 the young widow attracted him greatly. 
 
 As he wateiied her walking in front of him 
 that day he said to himself : 
 
 " I must really 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. 
 I-'ramed 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, 
 
 140
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 looked like an insect out there. The sky, paU^ 
 with light, was so merged into one wilii tlie water 
 that it was impossible to see where one ended and 
 the other began ; and tlie two women, walking in 
 front of the men, stood out against this bright 
 background, tlieir 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 Mme. Rosémilly as they 
 fled away before 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, mingling 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 oppor- 
 tunity ; 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 wrack. 
 
 When they had reached the end of the comb 
 141
 
 Pierre :iiul ]can 
 
 and the vd'^c of cliff, tlu'y saw a lilllc footpath 
 shinliiiLi- down the face of it; and helow lluin, 
 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 clifT. 
 
 "That is fine!" exclaimed Mme. Rosc^milly, 
 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 Bcausire, squar- 
 ing himself on his little legs, gave his arm to 
 Mme. 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 peo])le who led the wav went 
 fast till on a sudden they saw, by the side of a 
 
 142
 
 fT 

 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 wooden bench whicli aiïordcd a resting-place about 
 half-wav down the slope, a thread of clear water, 
 springing from a crevice in the clifT. It f( 11 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 foot- 
 path which it had carpeted with cresses, and was 
 lost among the briers and grass on the raised shelf 
 where the boulders were piled. 
 
 "Oh, I am so thirsty !" cried Mme. Rosémilly. 
 
 But how could she drink ? She tried to catch 
 the water in her hand, but it slipped au^ay 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 mvri- 
 ads of tiny drops, sprinkled all over her face, her 
 hair, her eye-lashes, and her dress, Jean bent over 
 her and murmured : " IIow 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." 
 
 143
 
 Picric aiul Jean 
 
 Vor \n fact they could sec (juite near them 
 now Captain Bcausirc as he came down, hack- 
 wanl, so as to give botli liands to Mme. Roland ; 
 and further up, further olT, Roland still letting 
 himself slip, lowering himself t)n his hams and 
 clinging on with his hantls and elbows at the sj)eed 
 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 hill-top. 
 Mme. Rosémilly and Jean set off at a run and 
 they were soon on the beach. They crossed it and 
 reached the rocks, which stretched in a long and 
 flat expanse covered with sea-weed, and broken by 
 endless gleaming pools. The ebbed waters lay be- 
 yond, 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 intend- 
 ing 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. 
 144
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 '• Yes, I see your face reflected in the water." 
 
 " If tliat is all you sec, 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 to-day 
 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 ofT to the distant 
 sea through some invisible crevice. 
 
 Mme. Rosémilly 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, 
 
 145
 
 Pierre and ]eaii 
 
 though lie got wtt up to the waist. But llie 
 crcaluro, waving its long whiskers, gently relireil 
 in front of the net. Jean drove it towards tiie 
 sca-wecd, making sure of iiis l)rey. When it 
 found itself blockaded it rose with a dart over 
 tiie net, shot across the mere, and was gone. The 
 young woman, who was watching the chase in 
 great excitement, could not helj) 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 Mme. Rosé- 
 milly, who was afraid to touch them, for fear of the 
 sharp, serrated crest which arms their heads. Mow- 
 ever, 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 sea- 
 weed to keep them alive. Then, having found a 
 shallower pool of water, she stepped in with some 
 hesitation, for the cold plunge of her feet took her 
 breath away, and began to fish on her own account. 
 She was dextrous and artful, with the light hand and 
 tiie hunter's instinct which are indispensable. At 
 almost every dij) she brought up some prawns, be- 
 
 146
 
 Pierre and Jedii 
 
 guilcd and surprised by her iii^^eniuusly gentle 
 pursuit. 
 
 Jean now caught nothing ; hut he followed her, 
 step by step, touched her now and again, bent over 
 her, pretended great distress at his own awkward- 
 ness, 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 dejjth, and now 
 and then from his fmger-tips blew it 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. 
 
 H7
 
 Pierre and ]can 
 
 She wont on in a tone of amused anno\ancc. 
 
 "How very ill-advised to tell nie so here and 
 now ! Could you not wait till another day instead 
 of spoiling my fishing?" 
 
 "Forgive me," he murmured, "hut 1 eould not 
 longer hold mv j)eace. I have loved you a long 
 time. To-day 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. Wc both know per- 
 fectly well what we are about and v.'e can weigh 
 the consequences of our actions. If you have 
 made up vour mind to make love to me to-day I 
 must naturally infer that you wish to marry me." 
 
 lie was not i)r('j)ari'{l for this matter-of-fact 
 statement of tiie case, and he answi'red blandly : 
 
 " Why, yes." 
 
 " Have you mentioned it to your father and 
 mother ?" 
 
 148
 
 Pierre and )caii 
 
 " No, I wanted to know lirst whether you 
 would aceept me." 
 
 She lield oui her liand, whieh was still wet, and 
 as he eagerly elasped it : 
 
 " I am ready and willing," she said. " I be- 
 lieve you to be kind and true-hearted. But 
 remember, I should not like to disj)lease your 
 parents." 
 
 " Oh, do you think that my mother has never 
 foreseen it, or that she would 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, a whole coquettish comedy of 
 love chequered by prawn-fishing in the splashing 
 water. And it was all over ; he was pledged, mar- 
 ried with twenty words. They had no more to 
 say about it since they were agreed, and they now 
 sat, both somewhat embarrassed by wliat had so 
 swiftly passed between them ; a little perplexed, 
 indeed, not daring to speak, not daring to fish, not 
 knowing what to do. 
 
 Roland's voice rescued them. 
 
 " This way, this way, children. Come and 
 149
 
 1 iLire aiul ]<jdn 
 
 UMich Bcausirc. Tlic fellow is j)i)sitivtly clearing 
 out I he sea ! " 
 
 The captain had, in fact, had a wonderful haul. 
 Wet above his hips he waded from }iool to j)ool, 
 recognising the likeliest spots at a glance, and 
 searching all the hollows hidden under sca-wccd, 
 with a steady slow sweep of his net. And the 
 beautiful transparent, sandy-gray ])rawns skipped 
 in his palm as he picked them out of the net with 
 a dry jerk and put them into his creel. Mme. 
 Rosémilly, 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 sea-grasses. 
 
 Roland suddenly exclaimed : 
 
 " Ah, here comes Mme. Roland to join us." 
 
 She had remained at first on the beach with 
 Pierre, for they had neither of tluiii any wish to 
 play at running about among the rocks and pad- 
 dling in the tide-pools ; and yet they had felt doubt- 
 ful 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 llie sun, mit- 
 igated by the sea-breexe, gazing at the wiile, fair 
 
 150
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 horizon of blue water streaked and shot with silver, 
 thought as if in unison: "How delightful this 
 would hav^c been — once." 
 
 She did not venture to speak to Pierre, know- 
 in<r 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-worn 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 me- 
 chanically 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 Mme. Rosémilly. 
 She looked at them, watching their movements, 
 dimly understanding, with motherly instinct, that 
 they wxre 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 scrambled up the 
 rock and seated themselves to come to an under- 
 standing. 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. 
 
 151
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 Pierre, too, was lookin<i^ al them, and a harsh 
 laugh suddenly broke frt)ni his lips. Without 
 tinniuL:: to him Mme. Roland said : 
 
 -What is it?" 
 
 He spoke with a sneer. 
 
 " I am learning. Learning how a man lays 
 himself out to be cozened by his wife." 
 
 She Hushed with rage, exasperated by the in- 
 sinuation she believed was intended. 
 
 " In whose name do you say that ?" 
 
 " In Jean's, by Heaven ! It is immensely funny 
 to sec those two." 
 
 She murmured in a low voice, tremulous with 
 feeling: "O Pierre, how cruel you are! That 
 woman is honesty itself. Your brother could not 
 fmd a better." 
 
 He laughed aloud, a hard, satirical laugh: 
 
 "lia! hah! hah! I lonesty itself ! All wives 
 arc honesty itself — and all husbands are — be- 
 trayed." And he shouted with laughter. 
 
 She made no replv. but rose, hastily went down 
 the sloping beach, and at the risk of tumbling into 
 one of the rifts hidden by the sea-weed, of break- 
 ing 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 : 
 152
 
 Pierre and )e:iii 
 
 " W'tll, mother ? So you have made the cfToit ?" 
 
 \\'illK)Lit a word she seized liim 1)\' the arm, as 
 if to say : " Save mc, protect me ! " 
 
 lie saw lier 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, ex- 
 plained the sport to her that she might take an 
 interest in it. But as she scarcely heeded him, 
 and as he was bursting with the desire to confide 
 in some one, he led her away and in a low voice 
 said to her : 
 
 " Guess wdiat I have done ! " 
 
 " But— what— I don't know." 
 
 " Guess." 
 
 " I cannot. I don't know." 
 
 " Well, I have told Mme. Rosémilly 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. Have I done well ? She is charming, 
 do not you think ?" 
 
 " Yes, charming. You have done very well." 
 153
 
 Pierre and Jeun 
 
 " Then you approve ? " 
 
 " Vcs, I api)rovc." 
 
 " But how strangely you say so ! I could fancy 
 that — tiiat you were not glad." 
 
 " Ves, 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 tiiey 
 talked for a long time of this marriage on 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. 
 
 154
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 Ix the break, on their way home, all the men 
 dozed excepting Jean. Beausire and Roland 
 dropped every five minutes on to a neighbour's 
 shoulder which rei)elled them with a shove. Then 
 they sat up, ceased to snore, opened their eyes, 
 muttered, " A lovely evening !" and almost imme- 
 diately fell over on the other side. 
 
 By the time they reached Havre their drowsi- 
 ness was so heavy that they had great difficulty in 
 shaking it off, and Beausire even refused to go to 
 Jean's rooms where tea was waiting for them. He 
 had to be set down at his own door. 
 
 The young lawyer was to sleep in his new 
 abode for the first time ; and he was full of rather 
 puerile glee which had suddenly come over him, 
 at being able, that very evening, to show his be- 
 trothed the rooms she was so soon to inhabit. 
 
 The maid had gone to bed, Mme. Roland hav- 
 ing declared that she herself would boil the water 
 and make the tea, for she did not like the servants 
 to be kept up for fear of fire. 
 
 IS5
 
 Pierre and )e.iii 
 
 No one liad yet been into tlic lodgings but 
 licisclf, Jean, and the workmen, tliat tlie smpiisc 
 might be the greater at their being so pretty. 
 
 Jean begged them all to wait a moment in the 
 ante-room. lie wanted to liglit the lamps and 
 candles, and he left Mme. Rose-milly in the dark 
 with his father and brother; then he cried: 
 " Come in ! " opening the double door to its full 
 width. 
 
 The glass gallery, lighted by a chandelier and 
 little coloured lamps hidden among palms, india- 
 rubber j)lants, and flowers, was first seen like a 
 scene on the stage. There was a spasm of sur- 
 prise. Roland, dazzled by such lu.xury, muttered 
 an oath, and felt inclined to clap his hands as 
 if it were a pantomime scene. They then went 
 into the fust drawing-room, a small room hung 
 with dead gold and furnished to match. The 
 larger drawing-room — the lawyer's consulting- 
 room, very simple, hung with light salmon-colour 
 — was dignified in style. 
 
 Jean sat down in his arm-chair in front of his 
 writing-table loaded with books, and in a solemn, 
 rather stilted tone, he began : 
 
 " ^'es, madame, the letter of the law is ex- 
 plicit, and, assuming the consent I j)romised you, 
 it affords mc absolute certainty that the matter we 
 
 156
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 discussed will cumc to a happy conclusion within 
 three nujuths." 
 
 lie looked at Mme. Ivosémilly, who began to 
 smile and j^laneed at Mme. Roland. Mme. Ko- 
 Luul took her hand and pressed it. Jean, in high 
 spirits, cut a caper like a school-boy, exclaiming : 
 " 1 1 ah ! How well the voice carries in this room ; 
 it would be capital for speaking in." 
 
 And he declaimed : 
 
 "If humanity alone, if the instinct of natural 
 benevolence which we feel towards all who suffer, 
 were the motive of the acquittal we expect of you, 
 I should appeal to your compassion, gentlemen of 
 the jury, to your hearts as fathers and as men ; but 
 we have law on our side, and it is the point of law 
 only which we shall submit to your judgment." 
 
 Pierre was looking at this home which might 
 have been his, and he was restive under his 
 brother's frolics, thinking him really too silly and 
 witless. 
 
 Mme. Roland opened a door on the right. 
 
 "This is the bed-room," said she. 
 
 She had dev^oted herself to its decoration with 
 all her mother's love. The hangings were of 
 Rouen cretonne imitating old Normandy chintz, 
 and the Louis XV. design — a shepherdess, in a 
 medallion held in the beaks of a pair of doves — 
 
 157
 
 Pierre aiul |eaii 
 
 o^ave llic walls, curtains, bed, and arm-chairs a fes- 
 tive, rustic style that was extremely j)relly ! 
 
 "Oh, how charming:!" Mim-. Rt)sémilly ex- 
 claimed, bccuming; a little serious as they entered 
 the room. 
 
 " Do you like it ?" asked Jean. 
 
 " Immensely." 
 
 " You cannot imagine how glad I am." 
 
 They looked at each other for a second, with 
 confiding tenderness in the depths of their eyes. 
 
 She had felt a little awkward, however, a little 
 abashed, in this room which was to be hers. She 
 noticed as she went in that the bed was a large 
 one, quite a family bed, chosen by Mme. Roland, 
 who had no doubt foreseen and hoped that her 
 son should soon marry ; and this motherly fore- 
 sight pleased her, for it seemed to tell her that she 
 was expected in the family. 
 
 When they had returned to the drawing-room 
 Jean abruptly threw open the door to the left, 
 showing the circular dining-room with three win- 
 dows, and decorated to imitate a Chinese lantern. 
 Mother and son had here lavished all the fancy of 
 which thev were capable, and the room, with its 
 bamboo furniture, its mandarins, jars, silk hang- 
 ings glistening with gold, transj)arcnt blinds 
 threaded with beads looking like drojis of water, 
 
 158
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 funs nailed to the wall to drape the liangings on, 
 screens, swords, masks, cranes made of real 
 feathers, and a myriad trifles in china, wood, i)a{)er, 
 ivory, mother-of-pearl, and bronze, had the preten- 
 tious and extravagant aspect which unpractised 
 hands and uneducated eyes inevitably stamp on 
 things which need the utmost tact, taste, and 
 artistic education. Nevertheless it was the most 
 admired ; only Pierre made some observations 
 with rather bitter irony which hurt his brother's 
 feelings. 
 
 Pyramids of fruit stood on the table and 
 monuments of cakes. No one was hungry ; they 
 picked at the fruit and nibbled at the cakes rather 
 than ate them. Then, at the end of about an 
 hour, Mme. Rosémilly begged to take leave. It 
 was decided that old Roland should accompany 
 her home and set out with her forthwith ; while 
 Mme. Roland, in the maid's absence, should cast 
 a maternal eye over the house and see that her 
 son had all he needed. 
 
 "Shall I come back for you?" asked Roland. 
 
 She hesitated a moment and then said : " No, 
 dear old man ; go to bed. Pierre will sec me 
 home." 
 
 As soon as they were gone she blew out the 
 candles, locked up the cakes, the sugar, and 
 
 159
 
 Pierre aiui )ean 
 
 liqueurs in a cupboard of whicli slu- t^avr tlu- key 
 to Jean ; llicn she went into the bed-room, turned 
 down tiie bi-d, saw that there was fresh water in 
 the water-bottle, and tliat tlie window was prop- 
 erly closed. 
 
 Pierre and Jean had remained in the little outer 
 drawing-room ; the younger still sore under the 
 criticism passed on his taste, and the elder chafuig 
 more and more at seeing his brother in this abode. 
 They both sat smoking without a word. Pierre 
 suddenly started to his feet. 
 
 " Cristi ! " he exclaimed. " The widow looked 
 very jaded this evening. Long excursions do not 
 improve her." 
 
 Jean felt his spirit rising with one of those 
 sudden and furious rages which boil up in easy- 
 going natures when they are wounded to the 
 quick. He could hardly hnd breath to speak, so 
 fierce was his excitement, and he stammered out : 
 
 "I f(jrbid you ever again to say 'the widow' 
 when you speak of Mme. Rosémilly." 
 
 Pierre turned on him haughtily : 
 
 " Vou are giving me an order, 1 believe. Are 
 you gone mad by any chance ?" 
 
 Jean had pulled himself up. 
 
 " I am not gone mad, but I have had enough 
 of your manners to me." 
 
 160
 
 Pierre and )can 
 
 Pierre sneered : "To you ? And arc you any 
 part of Mme. Rosémilly ?" 
 
 " Vou arc to know tliat Mme. Rosémilly is 
 about to become my wife." 
 
 Pierre laughed the louder. 
 
 " Ah ! ha ! Very good. I understand now 
 why I should no longer speak of her as ' the widow.' 
 But you have taken a strange way of announcing 
 your engagement." 
 
 " I forbid any jesting about it. Do you hear ? 
 I forbid it." 
 
 Jean had come close up to him, pale, and his 
 voice quivering with exasperation at this irony lev- 
 elled at the woman he loved and had chosen. 
 
 But on a sudden Pierre turned equally furious. 
 All the accumulation of impotent rage, of sup- 
 pressed malignity, of rebellion choked down for so 
 long past, all his unspoken despair mounted to his 
 brain, bewildering it like a fit. 
 
 " How dare you? I Tow dare you ? I order 
 you to hold your tongue — do you hear ? I order 
 you." 
 
 Jean, startled by his violence, was silent for a 
 few seconds, trying in the confusion of mind which 
 comes of rage to hit on the thing, the phrase, the 
 word, which might stab his brother to the heart. 
 He went on, with an elTort to control himself that 
 " i6i
 
 l"*icrrc aiul )caii 
 
 he might aim true, and to speak slowly that the 
 words might hit more kii-nly : 
 
 *' I have known for a long time that you were 
 jealous of me, ever since the day when you fnst 
 began to talk of 'the widow' because you knew 
 it annoyed me." 
 
 Pierre broke into one of those stridint and 
 scornful laughs which were common w ith him. 
 
 "All! ah! (iood Heavens! Jealous of you! 
 I ? I ? And of what ? Good God ! Of your per- 
 son or your mind ?" 
 
 But Jean knew full well that he had touched 
 the wound in his soul. 
 
 " Ves, jealous of me — jealous from your child- 
 hood up. And it became fury when you saw that 
 this woman liked me best and would have nothing 
 to say to you." 
 
 Pierre, stung to the (|uick by this assumj)lion, 
 stuttered out : 
 
 "I ? I ? Jealous of you ? And for the sake of 
 that goose, that gaby, that simpUton ?" 
 
 jean, seeing that he was aiming true, went on : 
 
 " And how about the day when you tried to 
 j.ull me round in the Pearl ? And all you said in 
 her presence to show ofT ? Why, you are bursting 
 with jealousy ! And when this money was left to 
 mc you were maddened, you hated me, you showed 
 
 162
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 it in every possible way, and madi- every one sufTcr 
 fur it ; not an hour passes tliat you do not spil out 
 the l)ile tliat is choking you." 
 
 Pierre clinched his fist in his fury with an al- 
 most irresistible impulse to lly at liis brcjtlier and 
 seize him by the throat. 
 
 " Hold your tongue," he cried. "At least say 
 nothing about that money." 
 
 Jean went on : 
 
 " Why your jealousy oozes out at every pore. 
 You never say a word to my fatiicr, my mother, or 
 me that docs not declare it plainly. You pretend 
 to despise me because you are jealous. You try 
 to pick a quarrel with every one because you are 
 jealous. And now that I am rich you can no 
 longer contain yourself ; you have become venom- 
 ous, you torture our poor mother as if she were to 
 blame ! " 
 
 Pierre had retired step by step as far as the fire- 
 place, his mouth lialf ojicn, his eyes glaring, a prey 
 to one of those mad fits of passion in which a crime 
 is committed. 
 
 lie said again in a lower tone, gasping for 
 breath : " Hold your tongue — for God's sake hold 
 your tongue ! " 
 
 " No ! For a long time I liavc been wanting 
 to give you my whole mind ! }ou have given me 
 
 163
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 nn open i ne: — ^^ mucli the worse for you. 1 love 
 the woman; you know it, and h\ugli lier to scorn 
 in my presence — so much the worse for you. Hut 
 I will break vour viper's fangs, I tell you. I will 
 make vou treat me with respect." 
 
 •* Witii respect — you ? " 
 
 " Ï cs — me. 
 
 " Respect you ? You, who liave brought shame 
 on us all by your greed." 
 
 " You sav ? Say it again — again." 
 
 " I say that it does not do to accept one man's 
 fortune when another is reputed to be your father." 
 
 Jean stood rigid, not understanding, dazed by 
 the insinuation he scented. 
 
 " What ? Repeat that once more." 
 
 " I say — what everybody is muttering, what 
 every gossip is blabbing — that you are I lie son of 
 the man who left you his fortune. Well, then — a 
 decent man does not take tiie mcMiey which brings 
 dishonour on his mother." 
 
 " Pierre ! Pierre ! Pierre ! Tiiink what you are 
 saying. You ? Is it you who give utterance to 
 this infamous thing ?" 
 
 "Yes, I. It is I. Have vou not seen me 
 crushed with woe this month i)ast, spending my 
 nights without slecj) and mv davs in Unking out 
 of sight like an animal? I iiardly know what I 
 
 164
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 am doin<^ or what will become (;f mc, so miscrahlc 
 am I, so crazed with shame and grief ; for lirst I 
 guessed — and now 1 know it," 
 
 "Pierre! Be silent. Mother is in the next 
 room. Remember she may hear — she must hear." 
 
 But Pierre felt that he must unburden his 
 heart. lie told Jean all his susj)icions, his argu- 
 ments, his struggles, his assurance, and the history 
 of the portrait — which had again disappeared. He 
 spoke in short broken sentences almost without 
 coherence — the language of a sleep-walker. 
 
 He seemed to have quite forgotten Jean, and 
 his mother in the adjoining room. He talked as 
 if no one were listening, because he must talk, be- 
 cause he had suffered too much and smothered and 
 closed the wound too tightly. It had festered like 
 an abscess and the abscess had burst, splashing 
 every one. He was pacing the room in the way 
 he almost always did, his eyes fixed on vacancy, 
 gesticulating in a frenzy of despair, his voice 
 choked with tearless sobs and revulsions of self- 
 loathing ; he spoke as if he were making a con- 
 fession of his own misery and that of his nearest 
 kin, as though he were casting his woes to the deaf, 
 invisible winds which bore away his words. 
 
 Jean, distracted and almost convinced on a 
 sudden by his brother's blind vehemence, was lean- 
 
 165
 
 Pierre aiul ]ean 
 
 ing against tlu- door bcliind which, as hc guessed, 
 tlîcir mother had heard them. 
 
 Slic could not get out, slic must come tlirough 
 his room. Slie liad not come ; then it was because 
 she dare not. 
 
 Suddenly Pierre stamped his foot. 
 
 " I am a brute," he cried, " to have told you 
 this." 
 
 And he fled, bare-headed, down the stairs. 
 
 The noise of the front-door closing with a slam 
 roused Jean from the deep stupor into which he 
 had fallen. Some seconds had elapsed, longer 
 than hours, and his spirit had sunk into the numb 
 torpor of idiocy. 1 le was conscious, indeed, that 
 he must presently think and act, but he would 
 wait, refusing to understand, to know, to remem- 
 ber, out of fear, weakness, cowardice. He was 
 one of thcjse j^rocrastinators who put everything 
 ofT till to-morrow ; and when he was compelled to 
 come to a decision then antl there, still he instinc- 
 tively tried to gain a few minutes. 
 
 But the perfect silence which now reigned, 
 after Pierre's vociferations, the sudden stillness of 
 walls and furniture, with the bright light of six 
 wax candles and two lami)s, terrified him so great- 
 ly that he suddenly longed to make his escape 
 too. 
 
 i66
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 Then he roused his brain, rcjused his liearL, ami 
 tried to reflect. 
 
 Never in his life liad lie had to face a difficulty. 
 There are men who let themselves glide onward 
 like runnin<r water. He had been duteous over 
 his tasks for fear of punishment, and had got 
 through his legal studies with credit because his 
 existence was tranquil. Everything in the world 
 seemed to him quite natural and never aroused his 
 particular attention. He loved order, steadiness, 
 and peace, by temi)erament, his nature having no 
 complications ; and face to face with this catas- 
 trophe, he found himself like ;i uvaw who has fallen 
 into the water and cannot swim. 
 
 At first he tried to be incredulous. His 
 brother had told a lie, out of hatred and jealousy. 
 But yet, how could he have been so vile as to say 
 such a thing of their mother if he had not him- 
 self been distraught by despair ? Besides, stamped 
 on Jean's ear, on his sight, on his nerves, on the 
 inmost fibres of his flesh, were certain words, 
 certain tones of anguish, certain gestures of 
 Pierre's, so full of sufïerinof that the\' were irre- 
 sistibly convincing ; as incontrovertible as certain- 
 ty itself. 
 
 He was too much crushed to stir or even to will. 
 His distress became unbearable ; and he knew that 
 
 167
 
 Pierre aiul |e:iil 
 
 bcliind llic door was liis mol lier who li.ul heard 
 cvcrvlliinir and was waitiuL!:. 
 
 What was slic doinjj:? Not a movement, not 
 a sluuldcr, not a brcatli, not a si^ll revealed the 
 presence of a livin<x creature heiiind that jiancl. 
 Could she have run away? Hut how? If she 
 had run away — she must have jumi)e(l out of the 
 window into tlie street. A shock of tirror roused 
 l^ipn — so violent and imperious that he diove the 
 door in rather than ojiened it, and Hung himself 
 into the hed-room. 
 
 It was apparently empty, lighted hy a single 
 candle standing on the chest of drawers. 
 
 Jean flew to the window ; it was shut and the 
 shutters bolted. lie looked about him, i)eering 
 into the dark corners with anxious eyes, and he 
 then noticed that the bed-curtains were drawn. 
 He ran forward and opened them. His mother 
 was lying on the bed, her face buried in the i)illow 
 whieli she had pulled uj) over her ears that she 
 might hear no more. 
 
 At first he thought she had smothered herself. 
 Then, taking her by the shoulders, he turned her 
 over without her leaving go of the i)illow, which 
 covered her face, and in which she had set her 
 teeth to keep herself from crying out. 
 
 But the mere toueli of this rigid form, of those 
 168
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 arms so convulsively clinched, communicated to 
 him I lie shock of Irt unspeakable tcjiture. The 
 strength and determination with which she clutched 
 the linen case full of feathers with her hands and 
 teeth, over her mouth and eyes and ears, that he 
 might neither sec her nor speak to her, gave him an 
 idea, by the turmoil it roused in him, of the pitch 
 suffering may rise to, and his heart, his simple heart, 
 was torn with pity. He was no judge, not he ; not 
 even a merciful judge; he was a man full of weak- 
 ness and a son full of love. He remembered noth- 
 ino- of what his brother had told hini ; he neither 
 reasoned nor argued, he merely laid his two hands 
 on his mother's inert body, and not being able to 
 pull the pillow away, he exclaimed, kissing her 
 dress : 
 
 " Mother, mother, my poor mother, look at 
 
 me!" 
 
 She would have seemed to be dead but that an 
 almost imperceptible shudder ran through all her 
 limbs, the vibration of a strained cord. And he 
 repeated : 
 
 "Mother, mother, listen to me. It is not true. 
 I know that it is not true." 
 
 A spasm seemed to come over her, a fit of suf- 
 focation ; then she suddenly began to sob into the 
 pillow. Her sinews relaxed, her rigid muscles 
 
 1C9
 
 Pierre and jean 
 
 yielded, her fingers gave way ami Icfl v:o of the 
 linen ; and he uncoveretl her face. 
 
 She was pale, (juite colourless ; and from under 
 her closed lids tears were stealing, lie threw his 
 arms round her neck and kissed her eyes, slowly, 
 with long heart-broken kisses, wet with her tears; 
 and he said again and again : 
 
 "Mother, my clear mother, I know il is not 
 true. Do not cry ; 1 know il. It is not true." 
 
 She raised herself, she sat up, looked in his 
 face, and with an effort of courage such as it must 
 cost in some cases to kill one's self, she said : 
 
 " No, my child ; it is true." 
 
 And they remained speechless, each in the 
 presence of the other. For some minutes she 
 seemed again to be suffocating, craning her throat 
 and throwing back her head to get breath ; then 
 she once more mastered herself and went on : 
 
 " It is true, my child. Why lie about it ? It 
 is true. \'ou wtnild not believe me if I denied it." 
 
 She looked like a crazy creature. Overcome 
 by alarm, he fell on his knees by the bedside, 
 murmuring : 
 
 " Hush, mother, be silent." She stood up with 
 terrible determination and energy. 
 
 " I have nothing more to say, my child. Good- 
 bye." And she went towards the door. 
 
 1 70
 
 Pierre and ]ean 
 
 He threw his arms about her exclaiming : 
 "What arc you doing, moLlicr ; wiicrc arc you 
 going?" 
 
 " I do not know. TTow should I know — 
 There is nothing left for me to do, now that I 
 am alone." 
 
 She struggled to be released. Holding her 
 firmly, he could find only words to say again 
 and again : 
 
 " Mother, mother, mother ! " And through all 
 her e (Torts to free herself she was saying : 
 
 " No, no. I am not your mother now. I am 
 nothing to you, to anybody — nothing, nothing. 
 You have neither father nor mother now, poor 
 boy — good-bye. " 
 
 It struck him clearly that if he let her go now 
 he should never see her again ; lifting her up in 
 his arms he carried her to an arm-chair, forced her 
 into it, and kneeling down in front of her barred 
 her in with his arms. 
 
 " You shall not quit this spot, mother. I love 
 you and I will keep you ! I will keep you always 
 — I love you and you are mine." 
 
 She murmured in a dejected tone : 
 " No, my poor boy, it is impossible. You weep 
 to-night, but to-morrow you would turn me out of 
 the house. You, even you, could not forgive me." 
 
 171
 
 Pierre and )ean 
 
 Ile replied: "1? 1? 1 low little you know 
 me !" with such a hurst uf {genuine alTccliun that, 
 wit 11 a crv. she seized his head by the hair with 
 both liands, and dragging him violently to her 
 kissed him distractedly all over his face. 
 
 Then she sat still, her cheek against his, feeling 
 the warmth of his skin through his beard, and she 
 whispered in his ear: "No, my little Jean, you 
 would not forgive me to-morrow. You think so, 
 but you deceive yourself. You have forgiven mc 
 this evening, and that forgiveness has saved my 
 life ; but you must never see mc again," 
 
 And he repeated, clasping her in his arms : 
 
 "Mother, do not say that." 
 
 " Yes, my child, I must go away. I do not 
 know where, nor how I shall set about it, nor 
 what I shall do ; but it must be done. I could 
 never look at you, nor kiss you, do you under- 
 stand ?" 
 
 Then lie in his turn spoke into her car : 
 
 " My little mother, you are to stay, because I 
 insist, because I want you. And you must pledge 
 your word to obcv me, now, at once." 
 
 " No, my child." 
 
 "Yes, mother, you must ; do you hear? You 
 must." 
 
 "No, my child, it is im|)0ssible. It wouKl be 
 
 172
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 condemning us all lu the torlurcs of lu-ll. I know 
 what that torment is; I have known il this month 
 past. Your feelings are touehed now, hut when 
 that is over, when }'ou look on me as Pierre does, 
 when you remember what I have told you — oh, 
 my Jean, think — think — I am your mother!" 
 
 " I will not let you leave me, mother. I have 
 no one but you." 
 
 " But think, my son, we can never see each 
 other again without both of us blushing, without 
 my feeling that I must die of shame, without my 
 eyes falling before yours." 
 
 "But it is not so, mother." 
 
 " Yes, yes, yes, it is so ! Oh, I have under- 
 stood all your poor brother's struggles, believe 
 me ! All — from the very first day. Now, when 
 I hear his step in the house my heart beats as if it 
 would burst, when I hear his voice I am ready to 
 faint. I still had you ; now I have you no longer. 
 Oh, my little Jean ! Do you think I could live 
 between you two ? " 
 
 " Yes, I should love you so much that you 
 would cease to think of it." 
 
 "As if that were possible !" 
 
 " But it is possible." 
 
 " How do you suppose that I could cease to 
 think of it, with your brother and you on each 
 
 ^7Z
 
 Pierre aiul )can 
 
 liand ? Woiilil ycui ccasc to ihiuk of it, I ask 
 yiui ? " 
 
 "I ? I swear I should." 
 
 "Wliy you wouKl think of it at every hour of 
 the day." 
 
 " No, I swear it. Resides, listen, if you go 
 away I will enlist and get killed." 
 
 This boyish threat (juite overcame her ; she 
 clasped Jean in a j)assionatc and tender embrace. 
 He went on : 
 
 " I love you more than you think — ah, much 
 more, much more. Come, be reasonable. Try to 
 stay for only one week. Will you promise mc 
 one week ? You cannot refuse me that ?" 
 
 She laid her two hands on Jean's shoulders, 
 and holding him at arm's length she said : 
 
 " My child, let us try and be calm and not give 
 way to emotions. First, listen to me. If I were 
 ever to hear from your lips what 1 have heard for 
 this month past from your brother, if I were once 
 to sec in your eyes what 1 read in his, if I could 
 fancy froni a word or a look that I was as odious 
 to you as I am to him — within one hour, mark 
 mc— within one hour I should be gone forever." 
 
 " Mother, I swear to you " 
 
 "Let mc speak. For a month past 1 have 
 suffered all that any creature can suffer. l*rom the 
 
 1/4
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 moment when 1 perceived tliat )'(nii' hrolher, my 
 other son, suspected me, that as tlic minutes went 
 by, lie guessed the trutli, every moment of my Hfe 
 has been a martyrdom wiiieh no words could tell 
 you." 
 
 Her voice was so full of woe that tiie contagion 
 of her misery brought the tears to Jean's eyes. 
 
 He tried to kiss her, but she held him ofï. 
 
 " Leave me — listen ; I still have so much to 
 say to make you understand. But you never can 
 understand. You see, if I stayed — I must — no, no. 
 I cannot." 
 
 " Speak on, mother, speak." 
 
 " Yes, indeed, for at least I shall not have de- 
 ceived you. You want me to stay with you ? For 
 what — for us to be able to sec each other, speak to 
 each other, meet at any hour of the day at home, 
 for I no longer dare open a door for fear of finding 
 your brother behind it. If we are to do that, you 
 must not forgive me — nothing is so wounding as 
 forgiveness — but you must owe me no grudge for 
 what I have done. You must feel yourself strong 
 enough, and so far unlike the rest of the world, as 
 to be able to say to yourself that you are not Ro- 
 land's son without blushing for the fact or despis- 
 ing me. I have suffered enough — I have suffered 
 too much ; I can bear no more, no indeed, no
 
 Pierre and jean 
 
 more! And il is not a lliint;- of ycslcnhiy, mind 
 you, but of Iow'j:, long years. lUu you coukl never 
 understand that ; how should you ! If you and I 
 arc to live together and kiss each other, my little 
 Jean, you must believe that though I was your 
 father's mistress I was yet more truly his wife, his 
 real wife ; that, at the bottom of my heart, I can- 
 not be ashamed of it ; that I liave no regrets ; that 
 I love him still even in death ; that I shall always 
 love him and never loved any other man ; that he 
 was my life, my joy, my hope, my comfort, every- 
 thing — everything in the world to me for so long ! 
 Listen, my boy, before God, who hears me, I should 
 never have had a joy in my existence if I had not 
 met him ; never anything — not a touch of tender- 
 ness or kindness, not one of those hours which 
 make us regret growing old — nothinij:. I owe 
 everything to him ! I had but him in the world, 
 and you two boys, your brother and you. Hut 
 for you, all would have been empty, dark, and 
 void as the night. I should never have lovetl, or 
 known, or cared for anything — I should not even 
 have wept — for I have wept, my little Jean; oh, 
 yes, and bitter tears, since we came to Havre. I 
 was his wholly and forever ; for ten \ cars I was as 
 much his wife as he was my husband before (jod 
 who created us for each other. And then I began 
 
 176
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 to sec that he Icn'ed nie less. He was always kind 
 and courteous, but I was not what 1 had been to 
 him. It was all over! Oh, how I have cried! 
 How dreadful and delusive life is ! Nothing lasts. 
 Then wc came here — I never saw him again ; he 
 never came. He promised it in every letter. I 
 was always expecting him, and I never saw him 
 again — and now he is dead ! But he still cared for 
 us since he remembered you. I shall love him to 
 my latest breath, and I never will deny him, and I 
 love you because you arc his child, and I could 
 never be ashamed of him before you. Do you un- 
 derstand ? I could not. So if you wish me to re- 
 main you must accept the situation as his son, and 
 we will talk of him sometimes ; and you must love 
 him a little and we must think of him when we 
 look at each other. If you will not do this — if you 
 cannot — then good-bye, my child ; it is impossible 
 that we should live together. Now, I will act by 
 your decision." 
 
 Jean replied gently : 
 
 •• Stay, mother." 
 
 She clasped him in her arms, and her tears 
 flowed again ; then, with her face against his, she 
 went on : 
 
 " Well, but Pierre. What can wo do about 
 Pierre?" 
 
 1/7
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 Jean murmured : 
 
 " \\\' will find some jtlan ! Voii cannot live 
 with him any luni^cr." 
 
 At the thou^iit of her elder son she was con- 
 vulsed with terror. 
 
 " No, I cannot ; no, no !" .And throwing her- 
 self on Jean's breast she cried in distress of mind : 
 
 " Save me from him, you, my little one. Save 
 me ; do something — I don't know what. Think 
 of something. Save me." 
 
 " Yes, mother, I wmII think of something." 
 
 " And at once. You must, this minute. Do 
 not leave me. I am so afraid of him — so afraid." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; I will hit on some plan. I promise 
 you I will." 
 
 " But at once ; quick, quick ! You cannot im- 
 agine what I feel when I see him." 
 
 Then she murmured softly in his car ; "Keep 
 me here, with you." 
 
 He paused, reflected, and with his blunt good- 
 sense saw at once the dangers of such an arrange- 
 ment. But he had to ar^^ue for a lon<j: time, com- 
 bating her scared, terror-stricken insistence. 
 
 " Only for to-night," she said. " Only for to- 
 night. And to-morrow morning you can send 
 word to Roland that I was taken ill." 
 
 "That is out of the (juestion, as Pierre left 
 178
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 you here. Come, take courage. I will arran;:,'-c 
 everything, I promise you, to-morrow ; I will j)c 
 with you by nine o'clock. Come, put or your 
 bonnet. I will take you home." 
 
 " I will do just what you desire," she said with 
 a childlike impulse of timidity and gratitude. 
 
 She tried to rise, but the shock had been too 
 much for her ; she could not stand. 
 
 He made her drink some sugared water and 
 smell at some salts, while he bathed her temples 
 with vinegar. She let him do what he would, 
 exhausted, but comforted, as after the pains of 
 child-birth. At last she could walk and she took 
 his arm. The town hall clock struck three as they 
 went past. 
 
 Outside their own door Jean kissed her, say- 
 ing : 
 
 " Good-night, mother, keep up your courage." 
 She stealthily crept up the silent stairs, and 
 into her room, undressed quickly, and slipped 
 into bed with a reawakened sense of that lono-- 
 forgotten sin. Roland was snoring. In all the 
 house Pierre alone was awake, and had heard her 
 come in. 
 
 179
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 When he or^t back to his lodQ^inp^s Jean 
 diop])cd on a sofa ; for the sorrows and anxie- 
 ties which made his brother long to be moving, 
 and to flee like a iiuntcd prey, acted differently 
 on his torj)id nature and broke the strength of his 
 arms and legs. lie felt too limp to stir a finger, 
 even to get to bed ; linij) body and soul, crushed 
 and heart-broken. lie had not been hit, as Pierre 
 had been, in the purity of filial love, in the secret 
 dignity which is the refuge of a proud heart ; he 
 was overwhelmed by a stroke of fate which, at the 
 same time, threatened his own nearest interests. 
 
 When at last his spirit was calmer, when his 
 thoughts had settled like water that has been 
 stirred and lashtcl, he could contemj)late the situ- 
 ation which iiad come before him. If he had 
 learned the secret of his birtii through any other 
 channel he would assuredly have been very wroth 
 and very deeply pained, but after his (juarrcl with 
 his brother, after the violent and brutal betrayal 
 which had shaken his nerves, tiie agonizing cmo- 
 
 i8o
 
 Pierre and |ean 
 
 tion of his niotlicr's toiifcssion had so hrrrft him 
 of energy that he could not rcbcL Tlie sliock to 
 his fechngs had been so great as to sweep away in 
 an irresistible tide of pathos, all prejudice, and all 
 the sacred delicacy of natural morality. Besides, 
 he was not a man made for resistance. He did 
 not like contending against any one, least of all 
 against himself, so he resigned himself at once ; 
 and by instinctive tendency, a congenital love of 
 peace, and of an easy and tranquil life, he began 
 to anticipate the agitations which must surge up 
 around him and at once be his ruin. He foresaw 
 that they were inevitable, and to avert them he 
 made up his mind to superhuman efforts of energy 
 and activity. The knot must be cut immediately, 
 this very day ; for even he had fits of that imperi- 
 ous demand for a swift solution which is the only 
 strength of weak natures, incapable of a prolonged 
 effort of will. His lawyer's mind, accustomed as 
 it was to disentangling and studying complicated 
 situations and questions of domestic difficulties in 
 families that had got out of gear, at once foresaw 
 the more immediate consequences of his brother's 
 state of mind. In spite of himself, he looked at 
 the issue from an almost professional point of 
 view, as though he had to legislate for the future 
 relations of certain clients after a moral disaster. 
 
 iSi
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 Constant frictit)n Uj^ainst Pierre luid certainly be- 
 come unendurable, lie could easily evade it, no 
 doubt, by living in bis own lodgings ; but even 
 then it was not possible that tiieir mother should 
 live under the same roof with her elder son. For 
 a long time he sat meditating, motionless, on the 
 cushions, devising and rejecting various possibili- 
 ties, and finding nothing that satisfied him. 
 
 But suddenly an idea took him by storm. This 
 fortune which had come to him. Would an honest 
 man keep it ? 
 
 " No," was tlic hrst immediate answer, and he 
 made up his mind that it must go to the poor. It 
 was hard, but it could not be helped. lie would 
 sell his furniture and work like any other man, like 
 any other beginner. This manful and painful reso- 
 lution spurred his courage ; he rose and went to 
 the window, leaning his forehead against the jxme. 
 He had been poor; he could become poor again. 
 After all he should not die of it. His eyes were 
 fixed on the gas lamp burning at the opposite side 
 of the street. A woman, much bel attd. happened 
 to pass; suddenly h(^ tiiounjit of Mine, l'^osémilly 
 with the pang at his heart, the shock of deep feel- 
 ing which comes of a cruel suggestion. All the 
 dire results of his decision rose uji before him to- 
 gether. 1 le would have to renounce his marriage, 
 
 182
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 renounce happiness, renounce everything. Could 
 he do such a tiling after having pledged himself to 
 her? She had accepted him knowing him to be 
 rich. She would take him still if he were poor ; 
 but had he any right to demand such a sacrifice ? 
 Would it not be better to keep this money in trust, 
 to be restored to the poor at some future date ? 
 
 And in his soul, where selfishness put on a guise 
 of honesty, all these specious interests were strug- 
 gling and contending. I lis first scruples yielded 
 to ingenious reasoning, then came to the top again, 
 and again disappeared. 
 
 He sat down again, seeking some decisive mo- 
 tive, some all-sufficient pretext to solve his hesi- 
 tancy and convince his natural rectitude. Twenty 
 times over had he asked himself this question : 
 " Since I am this man's son, since I know and 
 acknowledge it, is it not natural that I should also 
 accept the inheritance?" 
 
 But even this argument could not suppress the 
 " No " murmured by his inmost conscience. 
 
 Then came the thought : " Since I am not the 
 son of the man I always believed to be my father, 
 I can take nothing from him, neither during his 
 lifetime nor after his death. It would be neither 
 dignified nor equitable. It would be robbing my 
 brother." 
 
 183
 
 Pierre aiul Jean 
 
 Tills new view of llic in.ittn liaviiiLT relieved 
 liim and (luieted his conscience, he went U) I he 
 window again. 
 
 " Vcs," he said to liimself, " T nuist give up 
 my sliare of ihe family inherilanee. 1 must let 
 Pierre have the whole of it, since 1 am not his 
 father's son. That is hut just. Then is it not just 
 that I should keep my father's money ?" 
 
 Having discerned that he could take nothing 
 of Roland's savings, having decided on giving up 
 the whole of this money, he agreed ; he resigned 
 himself to keeping Marechal's ; for if he rejected 
 both he would hnd himself reduced to beggary. 
 
 This delicate question being thus disposed of 
 he came back to that of Pierre's presence in the 
 family. How was he to be got rid of? He was 
 giving up liis search for any practical solution 
 when the whistle of a steam-vessel coming into 
 port seemed to blow him an answer by suggesting 
 a scheme. 
 
 Then he threw himself on his bed without un- 
 dressing, and dozed and dreamed till daybreak. 
 
 At a little before nine he went out to ascertain 
 whether his plans were feasible. Then, after 
 making sundrv inquiries and ealN, he went to his 
 old home. His mother was wailing for him in 
 her room. 
 
 184
 
 Pierre and jean 
 
 "If you had nut come," she said, " I should 
 never have dared t(j go down." 
 
 In a minute Rohuid's v(Mce was heard on tiie 
 stairs : " Arc we to have nothing to cat to-day, 
 hang it all ?" 
 
 There was no answer, and he roared out, with 
 a thundering oath tiiis time : " Joscl^phine, what 
 the devil are you about ?" 
 
 The girl's voice came up from the depths of 
 the basement. 
 
 " Yes, m'sieu — what is it ?" 
 
 " Where is your Miss'es ?" 
 
 " Madame is upstairs with M'sieu Jean." 
 
 Then he shouted, looking up at the higher 
 floor : " Louise ! " 
 
 Mme. Roland half opened her door and an- 
 swered : 
 
 "What is it, my dear?" 
 
 "Are we to have nothing to cat to-day, hang 
 it all?" 
 
 " Yes, my dear, I am coming." 
 
 And she went down, followed by Jean. 
 
 Roland, as soon as he saw him, exclaimed : 
 
 " Hallo ! There you are ! Sick of your home 
 already ? " 
 
 " No, father, but I had something to talk over 
 with mother this morning." 
 
 185
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 Jean went forward hokling out his lunul, and 
 when lie felt his fingers in the old man's fatherly 
 clasj\ a strange, unforeseen emotion thrilled 
 through him, and a sense as of parting and fare- 
 well without return. 
 
 Mme. Roland asked : 
 
 " Pierre is not come down ?" 
 
 Her husband shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " No, but never mind him ; he is always behind- 
 hand. \Ve will begin without him." 
 
 She turned to Jean : 
 
 " Vou had better go to call him, my child ; it 
 hurts his feelings if we do not wait for him." 
 
 " Yes, mother. I will go." 
 
 And the young man went. He mounted the 
 stairs with the fevered determination of a man 
 who is about to fight a duel and who is in a 
 fright. When he knocked at the door Pierre 
 said : 
 
 " Come in." 
 
 He went in. The elder was writing, leaning 
 over his table. 
 
 " Good-morning," said Jean. 
 
 Pierre rose. 
 
 "Good-morning!" and they shook hands as if 
 nothing had occurred. 
 
 "Arc you not coming down to breakfast ?" 
 ii>6
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 "Well — you sec — I liave a good deal to do." 
 The elder brother's voice was tremulous, and his 
 anxious eye asked his younger brother what he 
 meant to do. 
 
 " They are waiting for you." 
 
 " Oh ! There is — is i ly mother down ? " 
 
 " Yes, it was she who sent me to fetch you." 
 
 "Ah, very well ; then I will come." 
 
 At the door of the dining-room he paused, 
 doubtful about going in first ; then he abruptly 
 opened the door and saw his father and mother 
 seated at the table opposite each other. 
 
 He went straight up to her without looking at 
 her or saying a word, and bending over her, offered 
 his forehead for her to kiss, as he had done for 
 some time past, instead of kissing her on both 
 cheeks as of old. He supposed that she put her 
 lips near but he did not feel them on his brow, 
 and he straightened himself with a throbbing heart 
 after this feint of a caress. And he wondered : 
 
 " What did they say to each other after I had 
 left?" 
 
 Jean constantly addressed her tenderly as 
 " mother," or " dear mother," took care of her, 
 waited on her, and poured out her wine. 
 
 Then Pierre understood that they had wept to- 
 gether, but he could not read their minds. Did 
 
 187
 
 Pierre and Jcaii 
 
 Jran believe in his iiiutiiei's guill, or think liis 
 l)ruUu'r a base wielcli ? 
 
 Anil all his self-reproach forhavinic: uttered the 
 horrible thinj^ came upon him a^ain, chokin<r his 
 throat and his tongue, and j)reventing liis citiier 
 eating or sjieaking. 
 
 lie was now a prey to an intolerable desire to 
 fly, to leave the house which was his home no 
 longer, and these persons who were bound to him 
 by such imperceptible ties. He would gladly have 
 been ofi" that moment, no matter whither, feeling 
 that everything was over, that he could not en- 
 dure to stay with them, that his i)resence was 
 torture to them, and that they woultl bring on 
 him incessant suffering too great to endure. Jean 
 was talking, chatting with Roland. Pierre, as he 
 did not listen, did not hear. But he presently 
 was aware of a pointed tone in his brother's voice 
 and paid more attention to his words. Jean was 
 saying : 
 
 " She will be the finest ship in their fleet. They 
 say she is of 6,500 tons. She is to make her first 
 trip next month." 
 
 Roland was amazed. 
 
 " So soon ? I thought she was not to be ready 
 for sea this summer." 
 
 *' Vcs. The work has been pushed forward very 
 i5ii
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 vigorously, to get her through her first voyage be- 
 fore the uuluinn. 1 looked in at the Company's 
 office this morning, and was talking to one of the 
 directors." 
 
 " Indeed ! Whicli of them ? " 
 
 " M. Marchand, wiio is a great friend of the 
 Chairman of the Board." 
 
 " Oh ! Do you know him ?" 
 
 " Yes. And I wanted to ask him a favour." 
 
 " Then you will get me leave to go over every 
 part of the Lorraine as soon as she comes into 
 port ? " 
 
 " To be sure ; nothing can be easier." 
 
 Then Jean seemed to hesitate, to be weighing 
 his words, and to want to lead up to a difficult sub- 
 ject. He went on : 
 
 " On the whole, life is very endurable on board 
 those great Transatlantic liners. More than half 
 the time is spent on shore in two splendid cities — 
 New York and Havre ; and the remainder at sea 
 with delightful company. In fact, very pleasant 
 acquaintances are sometimes made among the pas- 
 sengers, and very useful in after-life — yes, really 
 very useful. Only think, the captain, with his per- 
 quisites on coal, can make as much as twenty-five 
 thousand francs a year or more." 
 
 Roland muttered an oath followed by a whistle, 
 1 89
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 which testified to liis deep rcsj-)cct both for the sum 
 and the captain. 
 
 Jean went on : 
 
 " The purser makes as much as ten thousand, 
 and tiie doctor lias a li.xcd salary of live thousand, 
 with lodi^ings, keep, light, firing, service, and ever)'- 
 thing, which makes it uj) to ten thousand at least. 
 That is very good pay." 
 
 Pierre raising his eyes met his brother's and 
 understood. 
 
 Then, after some hesitation, he asked : 
 
 " Is it very hard to get a place as medical man 
 on board a Transatlantic liner?" 
 
 " Yes — and no. It all depends on circum- 
 stances and recommendation." 
 
 There was a long pause ; then the doctor be- 
 gan again. 
 
 " Next month, you say, the Lorraine is to sail ?" 
 
 ••Yes. On the 7th." 
 
 And they said no more. 
 
 Pierre was considering. It certainly would be 
 a way out of many dilTiculties if he could embark 
 as medical ofilcer on board the steamship. By-and- 
 by he could see ; he might perhaps give it up. 
 Meanwhile he would be gaining a living, and ask- 
 ing for nothing from his parents. Only two days 
 since he had been forced to sell his watch, for he 
 
 ir>o
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 would no longer hold out his iiand to beg of his 
 mother. So he liad no other resource left, no 
 opening to enable him to eat the bread of any 
 house but this whieii had beeome uninhabitable, 
 or sleep in any other bed, or under any other roof. 
 He presently said, with some little hesitation : 
 
 " If I could, I would very gladly sail in her." 
 
 Jean asked : 
 
 "What should hinder you ?" 
 
 " I know no one in the Transatlantic Shipping 
 Company." 
 
 Roland was astounded. 
 
 "And what has become of all your fine schemes 
 for getting on ?" 
 
 Pierre replied in a low voice: 
 
 " There are times when we must bring ourselves 
 to sacrifice everything and renounce our fondest 
 hopes. And after all it is only to make a begin- 
 ning, a way of saving a few thousand francs to 
 start fair with afterward." 
 
 His father was promptly convinced. 
 
 "That is very true. In a couple of years you 
 can put by six or seven thousand francs, and that 
 well laid out, will go a long way. What do you 
 think of the matter, Louise?" 
 
 She replied in a voice so low as to be scarcely 
 audible : 
 
 191
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 " I tliink Pierre is right." 
 
 Ruhiiul exclaimed : 
 
 " 1 will oro and talk it over with M. Poulin : I 
 kiidw him very well. He is assessor of the Cham- 
 ber of Commerce and takes an interest in the 
 afTairs of the Company. There is M. Lenient, too, 
 the ship-owner, who is intimate with one of the 
 vice-chairmen." 
 
 Jean asked his brother : 
 
 "Would you like me to feel my way with M. 
 Marchand at once ? " 
 
 " Yes, I should be very glad." 
 
 After thinking: a few minutes Pierre added : 
 
 " The best thing 1 can do, perhaps, will be to 
 write to my professors at the College of Medi- 
 cine, who had a great regard for me. Very in- 
 ferior men arc sometimes shipped on board 
 those vessels. Letters of strong recommendation 
 from such professors as M as- Roussel, Rémusot, 
 Flachc, and Borriquel would do more for me 
 in an hour than all the d()ul)tful introductions 
 in the world. It would be enough if your 
 friend M. Marchand would lay them before the 
 board." 
 
 Jean approved heartily. 
 
 "Your idea is really cai)ilal." And he smiled, 
 quite reassured, almost happy, sure of success and 
 
 102
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 incapable of allowing himself to he unhappy for 
 long. 
 
 "You will write to-day?" he said. 
 
 " Directly. Now ; at once. I will go and do 
 so. I do not care for any cofïce this morning; I 
 am too nervous." 
 
 He rose and left the room. 
 
 Then Jean turned to his mother: 
 
 "And you, mother, what are you going to 
 do?" 
 
 " Nothing. I do not know." 
 
 "Will you come with me to call on Mme. 
 Rosémilly ? " 
 
 "Why, yes — yes." 
 
 " You know I must positively go to see her 
 to-day." 
 
 " Yes, yes. To be sure." 
 
 "Why must you positively?" asked Roland, 
 whose habit it was never to understand what was 
 said in his presence. 
 
 " Because I promised her I would." 
 
 " Oh, very well. That alters the case." And 
 he began to fill his pipe, while the mother and son 
 went upstairs to make ready. 
 
 When they were in the street Jean said : 
 
 " Will you take my arm, mother ? " 
 
 He was never accustomed to offer it, for they 
 13 193
 
 Pierre iind Jean 
 
 were in tlic habit of walkinj;- side by side. She 
 accepted, and leaned on liini. 
 
 For some time they did not speak ; then he 
 said : 
 
 " You sec that Pierre is quite ready and willing 
 to go away." 
 
 She murmured : 
 
 " Poor boy ! " 
 
 " But why ' poor boy ' ? He will not be in the 
 least unhappy on board the Lorraine." 
 
 " No — I know. But I was thinking of so 
 many things." 
 
 And she thought for a long time, her head 
 bent, accommodating her step to her son's ; then, 
 in the peculiar voice in which wc sometimes give 
 utterance to the conclusion of long and secret 
 meditations, she exclaimed : 
 
 " How horrible life is ! If by any chance we 
 come across any sweetness in it, we sin in letting 
 ourselves be happy, and pay dearly for it after- 
 ward." 
 
 He said in a whisper'. 
 
 " Do not speak of that any more, mother." 
 
 " Is that possible ? I think of nothing else." 
 
 " Vou will forget it." 
 
 Again slie was silent ; then with deep regret 
 she said : 
 
 194
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 " How haj)|)y 1 might have been, married to 
 another man ! " 
 
 She was visiting it on Roland now, throwing 
 all the responsibility of her sin on his ugliness, his 
 stupidity, his clumsiness, the heaviness of his in- 
 tellect, and the vulgarity of his i)erson. It was to 
 this that it was owing that she had betrayed him, 
 had driven one son to desperation, and had been 
 forced to utter to the other the most agonizing 
 confession that can make a mother's heart bleed. 
 She muttered : " It is so frightful for a young girl 
 to have to marry such a husband as mine." 
 
 Jean made no reply. He was thinking of the 
 man he had hitherto believed to be his father; 
 and possibly the vague notion he had long since 
 conceived, of that father's inferiority, with his 
 brother's constant irony, the scornful indifference 
 of others, and the very maid-servant's contempt 
 for Roland, had somewhat prepared his mind for 
 his mother's terrible avowal. It had all made it 
 less dreadful to him to find that he was another 
 man's son ; and if, after the great shock and agita- 
 tion of the previous evening, he had not suffered 
 the reaction of rage, indignation, and rebellion 
 which Mme. Roland had feared, it was because he 
 had long been unconsciously chafing under the 
 sense of being the child of this well-meaning lout. 
 
 195
 
 Pierre and jean 
 
 They had now readied the dwelling of Mnic. 
 
 Rosémilly. 
 
 She lived on the road lo Saintc-Adrcssc, on 
 the second floor of a large tenement which she 
 owned. The windows commanded a view of the 
 whole roadstead. 
 
 On seeing Mme. Roland, who entered first, in- 
 stead of merely holding out her hands as usual, 
 she put her arms round her and kissed her, for she 
 divined the purpose of her visit. 
 
 The furniture of this drawing-room, all in 
 stamped velvet, was always shrouded in chair- 
 covers. The walls, hung with flowered paper, 
 were graced by four engravings, the purchase of 
 her late husband, the captain. They represented 
 sentimental scenes of seafaring life. In the first a 
 fisherman's wife was seen, waving a handkerchief 
 on shore, while the vessel which bore away her 
 husband vanished on the horizon. In the second 
 the same woman, on her knees on the same shore, 
 under a sky shot with lightning, wrung her arms 
 as she gazed into the distance at her husband's 
 boat which was going to the bottom amid impos- 
 sible waves. 
 
 The others represented similar scenes in a 
 higher rank of society. A young lady with fair 
 hair, resting her elbows on the edge of a large 
 
 196
 
 Pierre and Tcan 
 
 
 steamship quitting the shore, gazed at the already 
 distant coast with eyes full of tears and regret. 
 Whom is she leaving behind ? 
 
 Then the same young lady sitting hy an ()i)en 
 window with a view of the sea, had fainted in an 
 arm-chair ; a letter she had dropped lay at her feet. 
 So he is dead ! What despair ! 
 
 Visitors were generally much moved and 
 charmed by the commonplace pathos of these ob- 
 vious and sentimental works. They w^ere at once 
 intelligible without question or explanation, and 
 the poor women were to be pitied, though the 
 nature of the grief of the more elegant of the two 
 was not precisely known. But this very doubt 
 contributed to the sentiment. She had, no doubt, 
 lost her lover. On entering the room the eye was 
 immediately attracted to these four pictures, and 
 riveted as if fascinated. If it wandered it was 
 only to return and contemplate the four expres- 
 sions on the faces of the tw^o women, who were as 
 like each other as two sisters. And the very style 
 of these works, in their shining frames, crisp, 
 sharp, and highly finished, with the elegance of a 
 fashion plate, suggested a sense of cleanliness and 
 propriety which was confirmed by the rest of the 
 fittings. The seats were always in precisely the 
 same order, some against the wall and some round 
 
 197
 
 Pierre and )ean 
 
 the circular ccntrc-talilc. The iininaculately white 
 curtains hun<j^ in sucii straight and rc<j^ular pleats 
 that one lunged lo crumple them a little ; and 
 never did a grain of dust rest on the shade under 
 which the gilt clock, in the taste of the first em- 
 pire — a terrestrial globe supported by Atlas on 
 his knees — looked like a melon left there to 
 ripen. 
 
 The two women as they sat down somewhat 
 altered the normal position of their chairs. 
 
 "You have not been out this niorning?" asked 
 Mme. Roland. 
 
 " No. I must own to being rather tired." 
 
 And she spoke as if in gratitude to Jean and 
 his mother, of all the pleasure she had derived from 
 the expedition and the prawn-fishing. 
 
 " I ate my prawns this morning," she added, 
 " and they were excellent. I f you felt inclined we 
 might go again one of these days." 
 
 The young man interrupted her: 
 
 " Before we start on a second fishing excursion, 
 suppose we complete the first ?" 
 
 " Complete it ? It seems to me quite finished." 
 
 " Nay, madame, I. for my part, caught some- 
 thing on the rocks of Saint Jouain which I am anx- 
 ious to carry home with me." 
 
 She put on an innocent and knowing look. 
 198
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 " You ? What can it he ? What can you have 
 found ? " 
 
 " A wife. And my mother and I have come 
 to ask you whether she has changed her mind this 
 morning." 
 
 She smiled : " No, monsieur. I never change 
 my mind." 
 
 And then he held out his hand, wide open, and 
 she put hers into it with a quick, determined 
 movement. Then he said : " As soon as possible, 
 I hope." 
 
 " As soon as you like." 
 
 " In six weeks ? " 
 
 " I have no opinion. What does my future 
 mother-in-law say ? " 
 
 Mme. Roland replied with a rather melancholy 
 smile : 
 
 "I ? Oh, I can say nothing. I can only thank 
 you for having accepted Jean, for you will make 
 him very happy." 
 
 " We will do our best, mamma." 
 
 Somewhat overcome, for the first time, Mme. 
 Rosémilly rose, and throwing her arms round 
 Mme. Roland, kissed her a long time as a child 
 of her own might have done ; and under this 
 new embrace the poor woman's sick heart swelled 
 with deep emotion. She could not have ex- 
 
 199
 
 Pierre iind ]ean 
 
 pressed tlic feeling; it was at once sad and sweet. 
 Slie had lost her son, her big boy, but in re- 
 turn she had found a daughter, a grown-uj) daugh- 
 ter. 
 
 When they faced each other again, and were 
 seated, they took hands and remained so, looking 
 at each other and smiling, while they seemed to 
 have forgotten Jean. 
 
 Then they discussed a number of things which 
 had to be thought of in view of an early marriage, 
 and when everything was settled and decided 
 Mme. Rosémilly seemed suddenly to remember 
 a further detail and asked : " You have consulted 
 M. Roland, I suppose?" 
 
 A flush of colour mounted at the same instant 
 to the face of both mother and son. It was the 
 mother who replied : 
 
 " Oh, no, it is quite unnecessary ! " Then she 
 hesitated, feeling that some e.\i)lanation was 
 needed, and added: "We do everything with- 
 out saying anything to him. It is enough to 
 tell him what we have decided on." 
 
 Mme. Rosémilly, not in liie least surprised, 
 only smiled, taking it as a matter of course, for 
 the good man counted for so little. 
 
 When Mme. Ivoland was in llie street again 
 with her son she said : 
 
 200
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 " Suppose \vc g(j to your rooms for a little 
 while. I should be glad to rest." 
 
 She felt herself homeless, shelterless, her own 
 house being a terror to her. 
 
 They went into Jean's apartments. 
 
 As soon as the door w^as closed upon her she 
 heaved a deep sigh, as if that bolt had placed her 
 in safety, but then, instead of resting as she had 
 said, she began to open the cupboards, to count 
 the piles of linen, the pocket-handkerchiefs, and 
 socks. She changed the arrangement to place 
 them in more harmonious order, more pleasing to 
 her housekeeper's eye ; and when she had put 
 everything to her mind, laying out the towels, the 
 shirts, and the drawers on their several shelves and 
 dividing all the linen into three principal classes, 
 body-linen, household-linen, and table-linen, she 
 drew back and contemplated the results, and 
 called out : 
 
 "Come here, Jean, and see how nice it looks." 
 
 He went and admired it to please her. 
 
 On a sudden, when he had sat down again, she 
 came softly up behind his arm-chair, and putting 
 her right arm round his neck she kissed him, while 
 she laid on the chimney-shelf a small packet 
 wrapped in white paper which she held in the 
 other hand. 
 
 201
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 "What is that ?" he asked. Then, as she made 
 no reply, he understood, recognising the shape of 
 the frame. 
 
 " Give it mc ! " he said. 
 
 She pretended not to hear him, and went back 
 to the hnen cupboards. lie got up hastily, took 
 the melancholy relic, and going across the room, 
 put it in the drawer of his writing-table, which he 
 locked and double locked. She wiped away a tear 
 with the tip of her finger, and said in a rather 
 quavering voice : " Now I am going to see 
 whether your new servant keeps the kitchen in 
 good order. As she is out I can look into every- 
 thing and make sure." 
 
 202
 
 CHAriER IX 
 
 Letters of recommendation from Professors 
 Mas-Roussel, Rémusot, Flache, and Borriquel, 
 written in the most flattering terms with regard 
 to Dr. Pierre Roland, their pupil, had been sub- 
 mitted by M. Marchand to the directors of the 
 Transatlantic Shipping Co., seconded by M. Pou- 
 lin, judge of the Chamber of Commerce, M. 
 Lenient, a great ship-owner, and M. Mari val, 
 deputy to the Mayor of Havre, and a particular 
 friend of Captain Beausire's. It proved that no 
 medical officer had yet been appointed to the 
 Lorraine, and Pierre was lucky enough to be 
 nominated within a few days. 
 
 The letter announcing it was handed to him 
 one morning by Joséphine, just as he was dressed. 
 His first feeling was that of a man condemned to 
 death who is told that his sentence is commuted ; 
 he had an immediate sense of relief at the thought 
 of his early departure and of the peaceful life on 
 board, cradled by the rolling waves, always wan- 
 dering, always moving. His life under his father's 
 
 203
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 roof was now thai of a stranger, silent and re- 
 served. Ever since the evening when he allowed 
 the shameful secret he had discovered to escape 
 him in his brother's presence, he had felt that the 
 last ties to his kindred were broken. He was har- 
 assed by remorse for having told this thing to 
 Jean. He felt that it was odious, indecent, and 
 brutal, and yet it was a relief to him to have ut- 
 tered it. 
 
 He never met the eyes either of his mother or 
 his brother ; to avoid his gaze theirs had become 
 surprisingly alert, with tiie cunning of foes who 
 fear to cross each other. He was always wonder- 
 ing : " What can she have said to Jean ? Did she 
 confess or deny it ? What does my brother be- 
 lieve ? What does he think of her — what does he 
 think of me ?" He could not guess, and it drove 
 him to frenzy. And he scarcely ever spoke to 
 them, excepting when Roland was by, to avoid his 
 questioning. 
 
 As soon as he received the letter announcing 
 his appointment he showed it at once to his 
 family. His father, who was {)rone to rejoic- 
 ing over cver)'thing, clapped his hands. Jean 
 spoke seriously, though his heart was full of 
 gladness : " I congratulate you with all my heart, 
 for T know there were several other candi- 
 
 204
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 dates. You certainly owe it to your professors* 
 letters." 
 
 His mother bent her head and murmured : 
 " I am very glad you have been successful." 
 After breakfast he went to the Company's offi- 
 ces to obtain information on various particulars, 
 and he asked the name of the doctor on board the 
 Picardie, which was to sail next day, to inquire of 
 him as to the details of his new life and any details 
 he might think useful. 
 
 Dr. Pirette having gone on board, Pierre went 
 to the ship, where he was receiv^ed in a little 
 state-room by a young man with a fair beard, not 
 unlike his brother. They talked together a long 
 time. 
 
 In the hollow depths of the huge ship they 
 could hear a confused and continuous commotion ; 
 the noise of bales and cases pitched down into the 
 hold mingling with footsteps, voices, the creaking 
 of the machinery lowering the freight, the boat- 
 swain's whistle, and the clatter of chains dragged 
 or wound on to capstans by the snorting and pant- 
 ing engine which sent a slight vibration from end 
 to end of the great vessel. 
 
 But when Pierre had left his colleague and 
 found himself in the street once more, a new form 
 of melancholy came down on him, enveloping him 
 
 205
 
 Pierre and [can 
 
 like tlic fon^s which roll o\cr the sea, coming up 
 from tlie eiuis of the world and hulding in their 
 intangible density something mysteriously impure, 
 as it were the |)estilential breath of a far-away, un- 
 healthy land. 
 
 In his hours of greatest suffering he had never 
 felt himself so sunk in a foul pit of misery. It 
 was as though he had given the last wrench ; there 
 was no fibre of attachment left. In tearing up the 
 roots of every affection he had not hitherto had 
 the distressful feeling which now came over him, 
 like that of a lost dog. It was no longer a tortur- 
 ing mortal pain, but the frenzy of a forlorn and 
 homeless animal, the physical anguisli of a vaga- 
 bond creature without a roof for shelter, lashed by 
 the rain, the wind, the storm, all the brutal forces 
 of the universe. As he set foot on the vessel, as 
 he went into the cabin rocked by the waves, the 
 very flesh of the man, who had always slept in a 
 motionless and steady bed, had risen up against 
 the insecurity henceforth of all his morrows. Till 
 now that flesh had been protected by a solid wall 
 built into the earth which held it, by the certainty 
 of resting in the same spot, uucKt a roof which 
 could resist the gale. Now all that, which it was 
 a pleasure to defy in the warmth of home, must 
 become a peril and a constant discomfort. No 
 
 2q6
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 earth under foot, only the greedy, heaving, com- 
 plaining sea ; no space around for walking, running, 
 losing the way, only a few yards of planks to pace 
 like a convict among other prisoners ; no trees, no 
 gardens, no streets, no houses ; nothing but water 
 and clouds. And the ceaseless motion of the ship 
 beneath his feet. On stormy days he must lean 
 against the wainscot, hold on to the doors, cling 
 to the edge of the narrow berth to save himself 
 from rolling out. On calm days he would hear 
 the snorting throb of the screw, and feel the swift 
 flight of the ship, bearing him on in its unpausing, 
 regular, exasperating race. 
 
 And he was condemned to this vagabond con- 
 vict's life solely because his mother had yielded to 
 a man's caresses. 
 
 He walked on, his heart sinking with the de- 
 spairing sorrow of those who are doomed to exile. 
 He no longer felt a haughty disdain and scornful 
 hatred of the strangers he met, but a woeful im- 
 pulse to speak to them, to tell them all that he had 
 to quit France, to be listened to and comforted. 
 There was in the very depths of his heart the 
 shame-faced need of a beggar who would fain hold 
 out his hand — a timid but urgent need to feel that 
 some one would grieve at his departing. 
 
 He thought of Marowsko. The old Pole was 
 207
 
 Pierre aiul jcan 
 
 the only person who loved him well rnouoii to feci 
 true and keen emotion, and the doctor al once de- 
 termined to go and sec him. 
 
 When he entered the shop, the druggist, who 
 was pounding powders in a marble mortar, started 
 and left his work. 
 
 " Vou are never to be seen nowadays," said he. 
 
 Pierre explained that he had had a great many 
 serious matters to attend to, but without giving the 
 reason, and he took a seat, asking : 
 
 "Well, and how is business doing?" 
 
 Business was not doing at all. Competition 
 was fearful, and rich folks rare in that workmen's 
 quarter. Nothing would sell but cheap drugs, and 
 the doctors did not prescribe the costlier and more 
 complicated remedies on which a profit is made of 
 five hundred per cent. The old fellow ended by 
 saying : " If this goes on for three months I shall 
 shut up shop. If I did not count on you, dear 
 good doctor, I should have turned shoe-black by 
 this time." 
 
 Pierre felt a pang, and made up his mind to 
 deal the blow at once, since it must be done. 
 
 " I — oh, I cannot be of any use to you. I am 
 leaving Havre early next month." 
 
 Marowsko took off his spectacles, so great was 
 his agitation. 
 
 208
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 " You ! Y(ju ! What arc you saying ? " 
 
 " I say that I am going away, my poor friend." 
 
 The old man was stricken, feeling his last hope 
 slipping from under him, and he suddenly turned 
 against this man, whom he had followed, whom he 
 loved, whom he had so implicitly trusted, and who 
 forsook him thus. 
 
 He stammered out : 
 
 " You are surely not going to play me false — 
 you?" 
 
 Pierre was so deeply touched that he felt in- 
 clined to embrace the old fellow. 
 
 " I am not playing you false. I have not 
 found anything to do here, and I am going as 
 medical officer on board a Transatlantic passenger 
 boat." 
 
 " O Monsieur Pierre ! And you always prom- 
 ised you would help me to make a living ! " 
 
 " What can I do ? I must make my own liv- 
 ing. I have not a farthing in the world." 
 
 Marowsko said : " It is wrong ; what you are 
 doing is very wrong. There is nothing for me but 
 to die of hunger. At my age this is the end of all 
 things. It is wrong. You are forsaking a poor 
 old man who came here to be with you. It is 
 
 wrong. 
 
 Pierre tried to explain, to protest, to give rea- 
 ^ 209
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 sons, to prove that lie could not have done other- 
 wise ; the Pole, enraged by his desertion, would 
 not listen to him, and he ended by saying, with an 
 allusion no doubt to j)olitical events : 
 
 " You French — you never keej) your word ! " 
 
 At this Pierre rose, ulTended on his part, and 
 taking rather a high tone he said : 
 
 " You are unjust, père Marowsko ; a man must 
 have very strong motives to act as I have done 
 and you ought to understand that. Au revoir — I 
 hope I may find you more reasonable." And he 
 went awa)'. 
 
 "Well, well," he thought, "not a soul will feel 
 a sincere regret for me." 
 
 His mind sought through all the people he 
 knew or had known, and among the faces which 
 crossed his memory he saw that of the girl at the 
 tavern who had led him to doubt his mother. 
 
 He hesitated, having still an instinctive grudge 
 against her, then suddenly reflected on the other 
 hand : " After all, she was right." And he looked 
 «bout him to fmd the turning. 
 
 The beer-shop, as it happened, was full of people, 
 and also full of smoke. The customers, tradesmen, 
 and labourers, for it was a holiday, were shouting, 
 calling, laughing, and the master himself was wait- 
 ing on them, running from table tu table, carrying 
 
 2IO
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 away empty glasses and returning tlicm crowned 
 with froth. 
 
 When Pierre had found a seat not far from tlie 
 desk he waited, hoping that the girl would see him 
 and recognise him. But she passed him again and 
 again as she went to and fro, j)attering her feet 
 under her skirts with a smart little strut. At last 
 he rapped a coin on the table, and she hurried up. 
 
 "What will you take, sir?" 
 
 She did not look at him ; her mind was ab- 
 sorbed in calculations of the liquor she had served. 
 
 ** Well," said he, " this is a pretty way of greet- 
 ing a friend." 
 
 She fixed her eyes on his face. "Ah!" said 
 she hurriedly. " Is it you ? You are pretty 
 well ? But I have not a minute to-day. A bock 
 did you wish for ? " 
 
 "Yes, a bock !" 
 
 When she brought it he said : 
 
 " I have come to say good-bye. I am going 
 away." 
 
 And she replied indifferently : 
 
 " Indeed. Where are you going?" 
 
 "To America." 
 
 " A very fine country, they say." 
 
 And that was all ! 
 
 Really he was very ill-advised to address her 
 
 211
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 on such a busy day ; there were too many people 
 in the cafc^. 
 
 Pierre went down to the sea. As he reached 
 the jetty he descried the Pearl ; his father and 
 Beausirc were coming in. Papagris was j)ulling, 
 and the two men, seated in tiie stern, smoked their 
 pipes with a look of perfect happiness. As they 
 went past the doctor said to himself : " Blessed are 
 the simple-minded ! " And he sat down on one of 
 the benches on the breakwater, to try to lull him- 
 self in animal drowsiness. 
 
 Wiien he went home in the evening his mother 
 said, without daring to lift her eyes to his face : 
 
 " Vou will want a heap of things to take with 
 you. I have ordered your under-linen, and I went 
 into the tailor's shop about cloth clothes ; but is 
 there nothing else you need — things which I, jier- 
 haps, know nothing about ? " 
 
 His lips parted to say, "No, nothing." But 
 he reflected that he must accept the means of get- 
 ting a decent outfit, and he replied in a very calm 
 voice : " I hardly know myself, yet. 1 will make 
 inquiries at the ofhce." 
 
 He inquired, and they gave him a list of indis- 
 pensable necessaries. His mother, as she took it 
 from his hand, looked up at him for the first time 
 for very long, and in the depths of her eyes there 
 
 212
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 was tho humble expression, gentle, sad, and be- 
 seeching, of a dog that has been beaten and begs 
 forgiveness. 
 
 On the I St of October the Lorraine from 
 Saint-Nazaire, came into the harbour of Havre to 
 sail on the 7th, bound for New York, and Pierre 
 Roland was to take possession of the little floating 
 cabin in which henceforth his life was to be con- 
 fined. 
 
 Next day as he was going out, he met his 
 mother on the stairs waiting for him, to murmur 
 in an almost inaudible voice : 
 
 " You would not like me to help you to put 
 things to rights on board ? " 
 
 " No, thank you. Everything is done." 
 
 Then she said : 
 
 " I should have liked to see your cabin." 
 
 "There is nothing to sec. It is very small and 
 very ugly." 
 
 And he went downstairs, leaving her stricken, 
 leaning against the wall with a wan face. 
 
 Now Roland, who had gone over the Lorraine 
 that very day, could talk of nothing all dinner- 
 time but this splendid vessel, and wondered that 
 his wife should not care to see it as their son was 
 to sail on board. 
 
 Pierre had scarcely any intercourse with his 
 213
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 family d urine: the days whicli followed. Ile was 
 nervous, irritable, hard, and his rou<::h sj)eech 
 seemed to lash every one indiscriminately. But 
 the day before he left he was suddenly rjuite 
 changed, and much softened. As he embraced 
 his parents before going to sleep on board for the 
 first time he said : 
 
 " Vou will come to say good-bye to me on 
 board, will you not ?" 
 
 Roland exclaimed : 
 
 "Why, yes, of course — of course, Louise ?" 
 
 "Certainly, certainly," she said in a low voice. 
 
 Pierre went on : " We sail at eleven precisely. 
 You must be there by half-past nine at the latest." 
 
 " Ilah ! " cried his father. " A good idea ! As 
 soon as we have bid you good-bye, we will make 
 haste on board the Pearl, and look out for you be- 
 yond the jetty, so as to see you once more. What 
 do you say, Louise ?" 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 Roland went on: "And in that way you will 
 not lose sight of us among the crowd which 
 throngs the breakwater when the great liners sail. 
 It is impossible to distinguish your own friends in 
 the mob. Does that meet your views?" 
 
 " Yes, to be sure ; that is settled." 
 
 An hour later he was Iving in his berth — a lit- 
 214
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 tic crib as long and narrow as a coffin. There he 
 remained with his eyes wide open for a long time, 
 thinking over all that had happened during the 
 last two months of his life, especially in his own 
 soul. By dint of suffering and making others 
 suffer, his aggressive and revengeful anguish had 
 lost its edge, like a hlunted sword. He scarcely 
 had the heart left in him to owe any one or any- 
 thing a grudge ; he let his rebellious wrath (loat 
 away down stream, as his life must. He was so 
 weary of wrestling, weary of fighting, weary of 
 hating, weary of everything, that he was quite 
 worn out, and tried to stupefy his heart with 
 forgetfulness as he dropped asleep. He heard 
 vaguely, all about him, the unwonted noises of the 
 ship, slight noises, and scarcely audible on this 
 calm night in port ; and he felt no more of the 
 dreadful wound which had tortured hini hitherto, 
 but the discomfort and strain of its healing. 
 
 He had been sleeping soundly when the stir of 
 the crew roused him. It was day ; the tidal train 
 had come down to the pier bringing the passengers 
 from Paris. Then he wandered about the vessel 
 among all these busy, bustling folks inquiring for 
 their cabins, questioning and answering each other 
 at random, in the scare and fuss of a voyage already 
 begun. After greeting tiic Captain and shaking 
 
 215
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 hands with liis comnidc the jnirsrr, he went into 
 the saloon where some En<xlishnien were ahcady 
 asleep in the corners. The laru^e low rot)ni, witli its 
 white marble panels framed in gilt beading, was fur- 
 nished with looking-glasses, which prolonged, in 
 endless perspective, the long tables flanked by 
 pivot-seats covered with red velvet. It was fit, 
 indeed, to be the vast floating cosmopolitan dining- 
 hall, where the rich natives of two continents might 
 eat in common. Its magnificent luxury was that of 
 great hotels, and tiieatrcs, and public rooms ; the 
 imposing and commonplace luxury wiiicii appeals 
 to the eye of the millionaire. 
 
 The doctor was on the point of turning into 
 the second-class saloon, when he remembered that 
 a large cargo of emigrants had come on board the 
 night before, and he went down to the lower deck, 
 lie was met by a sickening smell of dirty, pov- 
 erty-stricken humanity, an atmosphere of naked 
 flesh (far more revolting than the odour of fur or 
 the skin of wild beasts). There, in a sort of base- 
 ment, low and (lark, like a gallery in a mine, Pierre 
 could discern some hundreds of men, women, and 
 children, stretched on shelves fixed one above an- 
 other, or lying on the floor in heaps. He could 
 not see their faces, but could dimly make out this 
 squalid, ragged crowd of wretches, beaten in the 
 
 2i0
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 strup^glc for life, worn oui and crushed, scttinp^ 
 forlh, each with a star\'ing wife and weakly ehil- 
 dren, for an unknown land where they hoped, per- 
 haps, not to die of hunger. And as he thought of 
 their past labour — wasted labour, and barren efTort 
 — of the mortal struggle taken up afresh and in 
 vain each day, of the energy expended by this tat- 
 tered crew who were going to begin again, not 
 knowing where, this life of hideous misery, he 
 longed to cry out to them : 
 
 " Tumble yourselves overboard, rather, with 
 your women and your little ones." And his heart 
 ached so with pity that he went away unable to 
 endure the sight. 
 
 He found his father, his mother, Jean, and Mme. 
 Rosémilly waiting for him in his cabin. 
 
 *' So early ! " he exclaimed. 
 
 " Yes," said Mme. Roland in a trembling voice. 
 " We wanted to have a little time to see you." 
 
 He looked at her. She was dressed all in black 
 as if she were in mourning, and he noticed that 
 her hair, which only a month ago had been gray, 
 was now almost white. It was very diflicult to 
 find space for four persons to sit down in the little 
 room, and he himself got on to his bed. The door 
 was left open, and they could see a great crowd 
 hurrying by, as if it wxre a street on a holiday, for 
 
 217
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 all the friomls of the passcnc^crs and a host of in- 
 quisitive visitors had invaded the huge vessel. They 
 pervaded tlie passages, tlic saloons, ever eorner of 
 the ship ; and heads peered in al the doorway while 
 a voice nuirnuired outside: "That is the doctor's 
 cabin." 
 
 Then Pierre shut the door ; but no sooner was 
 he shut in with his own party than he longed to 
 open it again, for the bustle outside covered their 
 agitation and want of words. 
 
 Mme. Rosémilly at last felt she must speak. 
 
 " Very little air comes in through those little 
 windows." 
 
 " Port-holes," said Pierre. He showed her how 
 thick the glass was, to enable it to resist the most 
 violent shocks, and took a long time explaining the 
 fastening. Roland presently asked : " And you 
 have your doctor's shop here ?" 
 
 The doctor opened a cuj)board and displayed 
 an array of phials ticketed with Latin names on 
 white paper labels. He took one out and enumer- 
 ated the properties of its contents; then a second 
 and a third, a perfect lecture on tlu-rapeutics, to 
 which they all listened with great attention. Ro- 
 land, shaking his head, said again and again : 
 " IIow very interesting !" There was a tap at the 
 door. 
 
 218
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 " Come in," said Picric, and Captain Bcausirc 
 appeared. 
 
 " I am late," he said as he shook hands, " I did 
 not want to be in the way." He, too, sat down 
 on the bed and silence fell once more. 
 
 Suddenly the Captain pricked his ears. lie 
 could hear orders being given, and he said : 
 
 " It is time for us to be off if we mean to 
 get on board the Pearl to see you once more 
 outside, and bid you good-bye out on the open 
 sea." 
 
 Old Roland was very eager about this, to im- 
 press the voyagers on board the Lorraine, no 
 doubt, and he rose in haste, 
 
 "Good-bye, my boy." He kissed Pierre on the 
 whiskers and then opened the door. 
 
 Mme. Roland had not stirred, but sat with 
 downcast eyes, very pale. Her husband touched 
 her arm. 
 
 "Come," he said, "we must make haste, we 
 have not a minute to spare." 
 
 She pulled herself up, went to her son and 
 offered him first one and then another cheek of 
 white wax which he kissed without saying a word. 
 Then he shook hands with Mme. Rosémilly and 
 his brother, asking : 
 
 "And when is the wedding to be ?" 
 219
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 •' I do not know yet exactly. Wc will make 
 it tit in with one of your return voyages." 
 
 At last they were all out of the cabin, and up 
 on deck among the crowd of visitors, porters, and 
 sailors. The steam was snorting in the huge belly 
 of the vessel, which seemed to quiver with impa- 
 tience. 
 
 •' Good-bye," said Roland in a great bustle. 
 " Good-bye," replied Pierre, standing on one of 
 the landing-planks lying between the deck of the 
 Lorraine and the quay. He shook hands all round 
 once more, and they were gone. 
 
 " Make haste, jump into the carriage," cried 
 the father. 
 
 A fly was waiting for them and took them to 
 the outer harbour, where Papagris had the Pearl 
 in readiness to put out to sea. 
 
 There was not a breath of air ; it was one of 
 those crisp, still autumn days, when the sheeny 
 sea looks as cold and hard as polished steel. 
 
 Jean took one oar, the sailor seized the other 
 and they pulled off. On tiie i)riakwater, on the 
 piers, even on the granite parapets, a crowd stood 
 packed, hustling, and noisy, to sec the Lorraine 
 come out. The Pearl glided down between these 
 two waves of humanity and was soon outside the 
 mole. 
 
 220
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 Captain Beausirc, seated between the two 
 women, held the tiller, and he said : 
 
 " You will see, we shall be close in her way — 
 close." 
 
 And the two oarsmen pulled with all their 
 might to get out as far as possible. Suddenly 
 Roland cried out : 
 
 " Here she comes ! I see her masts and her 
 two funnels 1 She is coming out of the inner 
 harbour." 
 
 " Cheerily, lads ! " cried Beausire. 
 
 Mme. Roland took out her handkerchief and 
 held it to her eyes. 
 
 Roland stood up, clinging to the mast, and an- 
 swered : 
 
 " At this moment she is working round in the 
 outer harbour. She is standing still — now she 
 moves again ! She was taking the tow-rope on 
 board no doubt. There she goes. Bravo ! She 
 is between the piers ! Do you hear the crowd 
 shouting ? Bravo ! The Neptune has her in tow. 
 Now I see her bows — here she comes — here she 
 is ! Gracious Heavens, what a ship ! Look ! 
 look ! " 
 
 Mme. Rosémilly and Beausire looked behind 
 them, the oarsmen ceased pulling ; only Mme. 
 Roland did not stir. 
 
 221
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 Tlic immense steamship, towed by a powerful 
 tu"^, which, in front of her, looked like a caterpillar, 
 came slowly anil majestically out of the harbour. 
 And the good ])coplc of Havre, who crowded the 
 piers, the beach, and tiic windows, carried away by 
 a burst of patriotic enthusiasm, cried. " F/rr la 
 Lorraine!'' with acclamations and applause for 
 this magnificent beginning, this birth of the beauti- 
 ful daughter given to the sea by the great maritime 
 town. 
 
 She, as soon as she had passed beyond the nar- 
 row channel between the two granite walls, feeling 
 herself free at last, cast off the tow-ropes and went 
 off alone, like a monstrous creature walking on 
 the waters. 
 
 " Here she is — here she comes, straight down 
 on us ! " Roland kept shouting ; and Beausire, 
 beaming, exclaimed : " What did I promise you ! 
 Heh ! Do I know the way ?" 
 
 Jean in a low tone said to his mother : 
 " Look, mother, she is close upon us ! " And 
 Mme. Roland uncovered her eyes, blinded with 
 tears. 
 
 The Lorraine came on, still under the impetus 
 of her swift exit from the harbour, in the brilliant, 
 calm weather. Beausire, with his glass to his eye, 
 called out : 
 
 222
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 •' Look out ! M. Pierre is at the stern, all 
 alone, plainly to be seen ! Look out ! " 
 
 The ship was almost touching the Pearl now, 
 as tall as a mountain and as swift as a train. Mme. 
 Roland, distraught and desperate, held out her 
 arms towards it ; and she saw her son, her Pierre, 
 with his officer's cap on, throwing kisses to her 
 with both hands. 
 
 But he was going away, flying, vanishing, a 
 tiny speck already, no more than an imperceptible 
 spot on the enormous vessel. She tried still to 
 distinguish him, but she could not. 
 
 Jean took her hand. 
 
 " You saw ? " he said. 
 
 " Yes, I saw. How good he is ! " 
 
 And they turned to go home. 
 
 " Cristi ! How fast she goes !" exclaimed Ro- 
 land with enthusiastic conviction. 
 
 The steamer, in fact, was shrinking every sec- 
 ond, as though she were melting away in the ocean. 
 Mme. Roland, turning back to look at her, watched 
 her disappearing on the horizon, on her way to an 
 unknown land at the other side of the world. 
 
 In that vessel which nothing could stay, that 
 vessel which she soon would see no more, was her 
 son, her poor son. And she felt as though half 
 her heart had gone with 'him ; she felt, too, as if 
 
 223
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 her life were eiuled ; yes, and she felt as though 
 she would never see the ehild again. 
 
 "Wiiv are vt)U erying?" asked her iuishand, 
 "when vou knuw he will l)e haek again within a 
 nionlh." 
 
 She stammered out : " I don't know ; I cry be- 
 cause I am hurt." 
 
 When they had landed, Bcausire at once took 
 leave of them to go to breakfast with a friend. 
 Then Jean led the way with Mme. Rosémilly, and 
 Roland said to his wife : 
 
 " A very fme fellow, all the same, is our Jean." 
 
 "Yes," replied liie mother. 
 
 And her mind being too mueh bewildered to 
 think of what she was saying, she went on : 
 
 " I am very glad that he is to marry Mme. 
 Rosémilly." 
 
 The worthy man was astounded. 
 
 " Heh ? What ? He is to marry Mme. Rosé- 
 milly ?" 
 
 '* Yes, we meant to ask your opinion about it 
 this very day." 
 
 " Bless me ! And has this engagement been 
 long in the wind ?" 
 
 " Oh, no, only a very few days. Jean wished 
 to make sure that she would accept him btforc 
 consulting you." 
 
 224
 
 Pierre and Jean 
 
 Roland rubbed his hands. 
 
 " Very good. Very good. It is capital. I 
 entirely approve." 
 
 As they were about to turn off from the quay 
 down the Boulevard François i^^, his wife once 
 more looked back to cast a last look at the high 
 seas, but she could see nothing now but a puff of 
 gray smoke, so far away, so faint that it looked 
 like a film of haze. 
 
 15 225
 
 THE PORTRAITS OF 
 GUY DE MAUPASSANT
 
 T II I' iM) ]<r \i A I rs () V 
 
 GUY 1)1': MAIJPASSAX r 
 
 LiKK his master, Flaubert, 
 who exercised such a power- 
 ful influence un his ideas and 
 his manner of life, (iuy de 
 Maupassant was more or less 
 hostile to portraiture, or 
 rather to the publicity of por- 
 traiture. He thought that an 
 authors work was all tliat 
 concerned the multitude, that 
 curiosity about a writer's ap- 
 pearance on the part of a 
 reader was indiscreet and 
 orofane to a certain extent, 
 and ([uitc unworthy f»f serious 
 consideration. 
 
 "I have made it a fi.xed rule," wrote Maupissant about 1SS5 
 (in a letter to the papers of wh h we give a facsimile), '• never 
 to allow rny portrait to be published when it was within my 
 power to prevent it. All the exceptions have been due to 
 occasions when I was taken more or less unawares." 
 
 What was the cause of this scorn for reproductions of his 
 own image on the part of the author of so many tales in which 
 he boldly and habitually put forward his own personality when 
 i^ 220 
 
 GUY DE M.AUPASSANT 
 
 From a drawing made in iS
 
 TJK" Poitrails of (;ii\ de Maupassant 
 
 GLV PK MAll'ASSANT 
 
 In 1880 
 
 of vulgarity, in so far as his 
 twisted moustaches, his mus- 
 cular neck, the hair brushed 
 across his forehead, and his 
 confident expression gave him 
 somewhat the air of a certain 
 type of non-commissioned 
 officer, or of a young squireen 
 of Lower Normandy, irresisti- 
 ble to women. 
 
 This character of strength, 
 muscular vigour, exuberant 
 health and universal con- 
 quest had impressed itself on 
 him without any effort on 
 his part in his rough life in 
 the ojjen air and on the water, 
 long before he had become a 
 
 y so doing he could give 
 greater vivacUy to the episode 
 he was relating ? Certainly no 
 spirit of pose ur desire to be 
 singular, no constitutional 
 timidity, no fear that his out- 
 ward man might give his ad- 
 mirers a disagreeable impres- 
 sion. 
 
 Ciuy de Maupassant was a 
 liandsome young Norman, 
 somewhat massive, l)ut firmly 
 knit and well set up, with a 
 resolute and manly face, which, 
 in theearly days of his vigorous 
 youtli was not without a strain 
 
 i;UV 1)1. MAUl'ASSANT 
 
 I'rom a jjhotoRr.iph, 1888 
 
 230
 
 The Portraits of Guy dc Maupassant 
 
 t;rY PK MAll'ASSANT 
 
 From a pliotograph l)y Liébert, 1886 
 
 successful writer, when Ik; 
 was preparing U) enter llu: 
 government office in whi( h 
 he was a clerk for a short 
 lime. In all the portraits 
 of him till after iSSo we 
 note this aspect of over- 
 flowing life, of a sanguine 
 temperament, and of a 
 frame made for theheahhy 
 exercises of boating, often 
 evidently cramped and ill 
 at ease in a morning coat 
 or a frock coat. It was 
 this which when he was 
 about twenty-eight gave a 
 
 
 y 
 
 
 
 -^,-<i<.-<_-. 
 
 ^- 
 
 y 
 
 
 ^.^<^ 
 
 AuruoKAPn 
 
 231
 
 The Portraits ol Ciiv dc Maupassant 
 
 somewhat commonand 
 rlunisy appearance U) 
 the man wlio, ten years 
 later, was so anxious 
 to figure as a man of 
 fashion, and to enjoy 
 and to defme social 
 success. 
 
 Maupassint, whom 
 1 knew intimately 
 enough towards the 
 close of his life to be 
 I able to judge him, dis- 
 liked portraits and their 
 reproductions because 
 he did not feel himself 
 to be a "literary man "' 
 in the trivial and vulgar 
 sense of the term, and 
 he would have blushed 
 to pride himself on 
 those things which give the greatest satisfaction to the vanity of 
 mediocre writers. lie disliked to see his features rejiroduced 
 for the same reason that he refused decorations and academic 
 honours, and all the distinctions that our IVench contem- 
 poraries seem to desire so eagerly, striving after paltry honours 
 which would soon become objects of derision, if proud natures 
 like that of the author of " Pierre et Jean " were less rare. 
 
 "A man must be very modest," said Flaubert, " if he thinks 
 himself honoured by honours conferred on him. ' 
 
 There are, then, no painted portraits of (luy de Maupassant, 
 nor any sketches by artists in crayons or water-colours, nor even 
 any medallions and miniatures. On the other hand, he never 
 attracted the attention of the caricaturist, 'i'he only prcsent- 
 
 23J 
 
 GUV DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 .After .in engraving by Boilc.iu
 
 1 he Portraits of Guy dc Maupassant 
 
 nicnls llial rciuain to us arc curtain photograplis, full face, 
 profile, and ilircc-(iuarters face, taken uiorc or less by chance, 
 at sonic Mionunt when the realistic iconophobe was complaisant 
 beyond his wont. Only once did he deliberately break through 
 his rule of refusing to sit for his own portrait ; this was in 
 favour of Im Kcviie llliislr'et\ which published a study on his 
 works, and asked for a sketch from nature. He allowed this 
 to be taken in his study ; he is seated in the attitude usual to 
 him when he talked with characteristic ease, charm and dis- 
 tinction of phrase, his legs crossed, his hands before him. his 
 eyes fixed on his interlocutor. This portrait, which we repro- 
 duce, was engraved by I>oileau, and is the best we have of the 
 young master whose end was so tragic. 
 
 The others are all from photographs, and have the rigidity, 
 the studied attitude, the lack of physical case and unconscious- 
 ness which mark all such works. The drawing we give from 
 a photograph by Liébert taken in iS86 is the most expressive. 
 It is still Maupassant the sportsman and oarsman, the poet of 
 "La Ivivandière" and the story-teller of "La Maison Tellier," the 
 hero of amorous adventures, whose doughty feats were retailed 
 at the literary clubs, a Maupassant in the full vigour of manhood, 
 in whom it would have been diflicultto predict a future ethero- 
 maniac, or a predestined victim of hereditary paralysis. 
 
 The other versions of him reproduced here from etchings 
 are more fanciful and conventional. They show us Maupassant 
 as he may have appeared in his official hours, his hair divided 
 by a vulgar parting, a moustache destitute of character adorning 
 the smug oval of a self-satisfied countenance, his frock-coat 
 fitting closely over his broad chest, his black cravat with its 
 stiff made up bow — the general appearance of a functionary 
 from the provinces. 
 
 The portrait of iS.SS, re[)roduced at the beginning of this 
 note, is the one which bears most likeness to our lost friend. 
 Here we recognise the author of " Horla," the owner of the
 
 GIV DK MAUI'ASSANr 
 I'rom an engraving by I-ekal, 1880 
 
 The Portraits of Ciiv dc Maupassant 
 
 — yacht " lUl Ami, "the writer 
 
 -^^^\»k of the melancholy pag«s 
 
 1 called " Sur IHau " the 
 
 111. m of tlu- woikl of his 
 later [)hase, already rest- 
 less, suffering, and over- 
 shadowed by the fatal 
 crisis. 
 
 After (iuy de Maupas- 
 sant's death a monument 
 was erected to him in Taris, 
 in the Pare Monceau ; it 
 consists of a bust of the 
 master of narrative, utterly 
 wanting in character, below 
 which a Parisian lady reads 
 one of his novels, having 
 first disposed her skirts in a fashion which has engrossed the 
 whole of the sculptor's art. At Rouen, at the entrance of the 
 Museum (iardens, facing the medallion of Flaubert, there is 
 another bust in yellow bronze of poor Maupassant, who seems 
 to be protesting against this desecration of his features in the 
 glare of a public garden. 
 
 We mention these posthumous works purely as memorials. 
 The soul, the expression, the animated features of Maupassant 
 have found no interpreter. He put all his life, all his true 
 jjhysiognomy into his imperishable tales, so varied, so richly 
 coloured. It is in these we recognise him. He was right to 
 prohibit the publication of his portraits. They did not depict 
 the real asi)ect of the man, as it was known and loved by his 
 friends - the mobile face animated by the fine eyes which had 
 a certain bitterncs.s, but also such curiosity, such eagerness, 
 such a (mssion for the spectacle of men and things. It was 
 im|>ossible to paint sui h vivacity.
 
 The Portraits of Guy dc Maupassant 
 
 " riicrc is soinclhiiiK belter than huvinj^ many portraits and 
 medals/' said another famcjiis Norman, Harhcy d'Aurevilly, 
 " and tliat is to have none." 
 
 It is everything to set the iniaginaticins of posterity dreaming. 
 Painters as a rule do but disconcert the fertile visions of 
 readers, always ready to create noble forms for the idea 
 expression of those tliey love t(j divine through their books. 
 
 OCTAVE UZANNE. 
 
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