itance. 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, it would have been of no good to stay any longer
in Paris and work for the children till I dropped, instead of coming
here to recruit my health, since fortune drops on us from the skies."

She was quite serious.

"It drops from the skies on Jean," she said. "But Pierre?"

"Pierre? But he is a doctor; he will make plenty of money; besides,
his brother will surely do something for him."

"No, he would not take it. Besides, this legacy 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 quite just."

"Drat it all!" he exclaimed. "What do you want me to do in the matter?
You 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 off, delighted in spite of everything, 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.

CHAPTER II

As soon as he got out, Pierre made his way to the Rue de Paris, the
high-street of Havre, brightly lighted up, lively and noisy. The
rather sharp air of the seacoast 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. He was hurt somewhere,
without knowing where; somewhere within him there was a pin-point of
pain--one of these 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 theater, he was attracted
by the lights in the Cafe Tortoni, and slowly bent his steps to the
dazzling facad