lively and bold imagination; he had made friends with the old
Pole, without, however, having ever extracted from him any revelation as
to his former career. It was owing to the young doctor that this worthy
had come to settle at Havre, counting on the large custom which the
rising practitioner would secure him. Meanwhile he lived very poorly in
his little shop, selling medicines to the small tradesmen and workmen in
his part of the town.

Pierre often went to see him and chat with him for an hour after dinner,
for he liked Marowsko's calm look and rare speech, and attributed great
depth to his long spells of silence.

A simple gas-burner was alight over the counter crowded with phials.
Those in the window were not lighted, from motives of economy. Behind
the counter, sitting on a chair with his legs stretched out and
crossed, an old man, quite bald, with a large beak of a nose which, as a
prolongation of his hairless forehead, gave him a melancholy likeness to
a parrot, was sleeping soundly, his chin resting on his breast. He woke
at the sound of the shop-bell, and recognising the doctor, came forward
to meet him, holding out both hands.

His black frock-coat, streaked with stains of acids and sirups, was
much too wide for his lean little person, and looked like a shabby old
cassock; and the man spoke with a strong Polish accent which gave the
childlike character to his thin voice, the lisping note and intonations
of a young thing learning to speak.

Pierre sat down, and Marowsko asked him: "What news, dear doctor?"

"None. Everything as usual, everywhere."

"You do not look very gay this evening."

"I am not often gay."

"Come, come, you must shake that off. Will you try a glass of liqueur?"

"Yes, I do not mind."

"Then I will give you something new to try. For these two months I have
been trying to extract something from currants, of which only a sirup
has been made hitherto--well, and I have done it. I have invented a very
good liqueur--very good indeed; very good."

And quite delighted, he went to a cupboard, opened it, and picked out
a bottle which he brought forth. He moved and did everything in jerky
gestures, always incomplete; he never quite stretched out his arm, nor
quite put out his legs; nor made any broad and definite movements. His
ideas seemed to be like his actions; he suggested them, promised them,
sketched them, hinted at them, but never fully uttered them.

And, indeed, his great end i