ean, distracted and almost convinced on a sudden by his brother's blind
vehemence, was leaning against the door behind which, as he guessed,
their mother had heard them.

She could not get out, she must come through his room. She had not come;
then it was because she dare not.

Suddenly Pierre stamped his foot.

"I am a brute," he cried, "to have told you this."

And he fled, bare-headed, down the stairs.

The noise of the front-door closing with a slam roused Jean from the
deep stupor into which he had fallen. Some seconds had elapsed, longer
than hours, and his spirit had sunk into the numb torpor of idiocy.
He was conscious, indeed, that he must presently think and act, but he
would wait, refusing to understand, to know, to remember, out of
fear, weakness, cowardice. He was one of those procrastinators who put
everything off till to-morrow; and when he was compelled to come to
a decision then and there, still he instinctively tried to gain a few
minutes.

But the perfect silence which now reigned, after Pierre's vociferations,
the sudden stillness of walls and furniture, with the bright light of
six wax candles and two lamps, terrified him so greatly that he suddenly
longed to make his escape too.

Then he roused his brain, roused his heart, and tried to reflect.

Never in his life had he had to face a difficulty. There are men who let
themselves glide onward like running water. He had been duteous over his
tasks for fear of punishment, and had got through his legal studies
with credit because his existence was tranquil. Everything in the world
seemed to him quite natural and never aroused his particular attention.
He loved order, steadiness, and peace, by temperament, his nature having
no complications; and face to face with this catastrophe, he found
himself like a man who has fallen into the water and cannot swim.

At first he tried to be incredulous. His brother had told a lie, out of
hatred and jealousy. But yet, how could he have been so vile as to say
such a thing of their mother if he had not himself been distraught by
despair? Besides, stamped on Jean's ear, on his sight, on his nerves,
on the inmost fibres of his flesh, were certain words, certain tones of
anguish, certain gestures of Pierre's, so full of suffering that they
were irresistibly convincing; as incontrovertible as certainty itself.

He was too much crushed to stir or even to will. His distress became
unbearable; and he knew that behi