tte_.

"Well," said the doctor, "how is the liqueur getting on?"

The Pole explained that four of the chief cafes in the town had agreed
to have it on sale, and that two papers, the _Northcoast Pharos_ and
the _Havre Semaphore_, would advertise it, in return for certain
chemical preparations to be supplied 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
questions vaguely referring to the same subject. His jealous devotion
to Pierre rebelled against this preference. And Pierre felt as though
he could hear him thinking; he guessed and understood, read in his
averted eyes and in the hesitancy of his tone, the words which rose to
his lips but were not spoken--which the druggist was too timid or too
prudent and cautious to utter.

At this moment, he felt sure, the old man was thinking: "You ought not
to have suffered him to accept this inheritance which will make people
speak ill of your mother."

Perhaps, indeed, Marowsko believed that Jean was Marechal's son. Of
course he believed it! How could he help believing it when the thing
must seem so possible, so probable, self-evident? Why, he himself,
Pierre, her son--had not he been for these three days past fighting
with all the subtlety at his command to cheat his reason, fighting
against this hideous suspicion?

And suddenly the need to be alone, to reflect, to discuss the matter
with himself--to face boldly, without scruple or weakness, this
possible but monstrous thing--came upon him anew, and so imperative
that he rose without even drinking his glass of _Groseillette_, shook
hands with the astounded druggist and plunged out into the foggy
streets again.

He asked himself: "What made this Marechal leave all his fortune to
Jean?"

It was not jealousy now which made him dwell on this question, not the
rather mean but natural envy which he knew lurked within him, and with
which he had been struggling these three days, but the dread of an
overpowering horror; the dread that he himself should believe Jean,
his brother, was that man's son.

No. He did not believe it; he could not even ask himself the question
which was a crime! Meanwhile he must get rid of this faint suspicion,
improbable as it was, utterly and for ever. He craved for light, for
certainty--he must win absolute security in his heart, for he loved no
one in the world but his mother. And as he wander