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 Marechal then, being young, free, rich, ready for any form of
tenderness, went by chance into the shop one day, having perhaps
observed its pretty mistress. He had bought something, had come again,
had chatted, more intimately each time, paying by frequent purchases
for the right of a seat in the family, of smiling at the young wife and
shaking hands with the husband.

And what next--what next--good God--what next?

He had loved and petted the first child, the jeweller's child, till the
second was born; then, till death, he had remained impenetrable; and
when his grave was closed, his flesh dust, his name erased from the
list of the living, when he himself was quiet and forever gone, having
nothing to scheme for, to dread or to hide, he had given his whole
fortune to the second child! Why?

The man had all his wits; he must have understood and foreseen that he
might, that he almost infallibly must, give grounds for the supposition
that the child was his. He was casting obloquy on a woman. How could he
have done this if Jean were not his son?

And suddenly a clear and fearful recollection shot through his brain.
Marechal was fair--fair like Jean. He now remembered a little
miniature portrait he had seen formerly in Paris, on the drawing-room
chimney-shelf, and which had since disappeared. Where was it? Lost, or
hidden away? Oh, if he could but have it in his hand for one minute! His
mother kept it perhaps in the unconfessed drawer where love-tokens were
treasured.

His misery in 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 went up to the night. They were terrifying, these calls
given forth by the great blind steam-ships.

Then all was silent once more.

Pierre had opened his eyes and was lookin