You must take care of yourself." Then, addressing his son, "You surely
must see that your mother is ill. Have you questioned her, at any
rate?"

Pierre replied: "No; I had not noticed that there was anything the
matter with her."

At this Roland was angry.

"But it stares you in the face, confound you! What on earth is the
good of your being a doctor if you cannot even see that your mother is
out of sorts? Why, look at her, just look at her. Really, a man might
die under his very eyes and this doctor would never think there was
anything 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 directly--it is nothing."

Pierre had gone up 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:

"Here--do something to ease her. Have you felt her heart?"

As Pierre bent over to feel her pulse she pulled away her hand so
vehemently that she struck it against a chair which was standing by.

"Come," said he in icy tones, "let me see what I can do for you, as
you are ill."

Then she raised her arm and held it out to him. Her skin was burning,
the blood throbbing in short irregular leaps.

"You are certainly ill," he murmured. "You must take something to
quiet you. I will write you a prescription." And as he wrote, stooping
over the paper, a low sound of choked sighs, smothered, quick
breathing and suppressed sobs made him suddenly look round at her. She
was weeping, her hands covering her face.

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.

"But what is the matter with her? I never saw her like this."

"It is nothing," said Pierre, "she is a little hysterical."

And he felt as if it were a comfort to him to see her suffering thus,
as if this anguish mitigated his resentment and diminished his
mother's load of opprobrium. He looked at her as a judge satisfied
with his day's work.

Suddenly she rose, rushed to the door with such a swift impulse that
it w