e 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 between
them. This paternal love, this filial love, were the outcome of a lie--a
lie which could not be unmasked, and which no one would ever know but
he, the true son.

But yet, but yet--if he were mistaken? How could he make sure? Oh, if
only some likeness, however slight, could be traced between his father
and Jean, one of those mysterious resemblances which run from an
ancestor to the great-great-grandson, showing that the whole race are
the offspring of the same embrace. To him, a medical man, so little
would suffice to enable him to discern 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 nothing; no, nothing. But 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 at his
leisure, to surprise him in his sleep, while the calm countenance and
relaxed features were at rest and all the grimace of life put off.
Thus he might catch the dormant secret of his physiognomy, and if any
appreciable likeness existed it would not escape him.

But supposing Jean were to wake, what could he say? How could he explain
this intrusion?

He stood still, his fingers clinched on the door-handle, trying to
devise a reason, an excuse. Then he remembered that a week ago he had
lent his brother a phial 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 slumbers. 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
recolle