e have realised the prostration of his poor mind, already
shattered by doubt and finished off by this calamity. Indeed, the
sepulchre was empty now, the very ashes had been swept out of it.

"My poor little Pierre," the elder brother slowly said. "Forgive me if I
do not tell you anything. I cannot do so. And besides, what would be the
use of it? We should certainly not understand one another.... So let
us keep from saying anything, and let us simply enjoy the delight of
being together and loving one another in spite of all."

Pierre raised his eyes, and for a long time their glances lingered, one
fixed on the other. "Ah!" stammered the priest, "how frightful it all
is!"

Guillaume, however, had well understood the mute inquiry of Pierre's
eyes. His own did not waver but replied boldly, beaming with purity and
loftiness: "I can tell you nothing. Yet, all the same, let us love each
other, my little Pierre."

And then Pierre for a moment felt that his brother was above all base
anxiety, above the guilty fear of the man who trembles for himself. In
lieu thereof he seemed to be carried away by the passion of some great
design, the noble thought of concealing some sovereign idea, some secret
which it was imperative for him to save. But, alas! this was only the
fleeting vision of a vague hope; for all vanished, and again came the
doubt, the suspicion, of a mind dealing with one that it knew nothing of.

And all at once a souvenir, a frightful spectacle, arose before Pierre's
eyes and distracted him: "Did you see, brother," he stammered, "did you
see that fair-haired girl lying under the archway, ripped open, with a
smile of astonishment on her face?"

Guillaume in his turn quivered, and in a low and dolorous voice replied:
"Yes, I saw her! Ah, poor little thing! Ah! the atrocious necessities,
the atrocious errors, of justice!"

Then, amidst the frightful shudder that seemed to sweep by, Pierre, with
his horror of all violence, succumbed, and let his face sink upon the
counterpane at the edge of the bed. And he sobbed distractedly: a sudden
attack of weakness, overflowing in tears, cast him there exhausted, with
no more strength than a child. It was as if all his sufferings since the
morning, the deep grief with which universal injustice and woe inspired
him, were bursting forth in that flood of tears which nothing now could
stay. And Guillaume, who, to calm his little brother, had set his hand
upon his head, in the same