he evening when he allowed
the shameful secret he had discovered to escape him in his brother's
presence, he had felt that the last ties to his kindred were broken. He
was harassed by remorse for having told this thing to Jean. He felt that
it was odious, indecent, and brutal, and yet it was a relief to him to
have uttered it.

He never met the eyes either of his mother or his brother; to avoid his
gaze theirs had become surprisingly alert, with the cunning of foes who
fear to cross each other. He was always wondering: "What can she have
said to Jean? Did she confess or deny it? What does my brother believe?
What does he think of her--what does he think of me?" He could not
guess, and it drove him to frenzy. And he scarcely ever spoke to them,
excepting when Roland was by, to avoid his questioning.

As soon as he received the letter announcing his appointment he showed
it at once to his family. His father, who was prone to rejoicing over
everything, clapped his hands. Jean spoke seriously, though his heart
was full of gladness: "I congratulate you with all my heart, for I
know there were several other candidates. You certainly owe it to your
professors' letters."

His mother bent her head and murmured:

"I am very glad you have been successful."

After breakfast he went to the Company's offices to obtain information
on various particulars, and he asked the name of the doctor on board
the Picardie, which was to sail next day, to inquire of him as to the
details of his new life and any details he might think useful.

Dr. Pirette having gone on board, Pierre went to the ship, where he was
received in a little state-room by a young man with a fair beard, not
unlike his brother. They talked together a long time.

In the hollow depths of the huge ship they could hear a confused and
continuous commotion; the noise of bales and cases pitched down into
the hold mingling with footsteps, voices, the creaking of the machinery
lowering the freight, the boatswain's whistle, and the clatter of chains
dragged or wound on to capstans by the snorting and panting engine which
sent a slight vibration from end to end of the great vessel.

But when Pierre had left his colleague and found himself in the street
once more, a new form of melancholy came down on him, enveloping him
like the fogs which roll over the sea, coming up from the ends of the
world and holding in their intangible density something mysteriously
impure, as it were