pier, which was, however, scarcely visible.
Turning half-round, he rested his elbows on the granite and hid his
face in his hands.

Though he did not pronounce the word with his lips, his mind kept
repeating: "Marechal--Marechal," as if to raise and challenge the
shade. And on the black background of his closed eyelids, he suddenly
saw him as he had known him: a man of about sixty, with a white beard
cut in a point and very thick eyebrows, also white. He was neither
tall nor short, his manner was pleasant, his eyes gray and soft, his
movements gentle, his whole appearance that of a good fellow, simple
and kindly. He called Pierre et Jean "my dear children," and had never
seemed to prefer either, asking them both together to dine with him.
And then Pierre, with the pertinacity of a dog seeking a lost scent,
tried to recall the words, gestures, tones, looks, of this man who had
vanished from the world. By degrees he saw him quite clearly in his
rooms in the rue Tronchet, where he received his brother and himself
at dinner.

He was waited on by two maids, both old women who had been in the
habit--a very old one, no doubt--of saying "Monsieur Pierre" and
"Monsieur Jean." Marechal would hold out both hands, the right hand
to one of the young men, the left to the other, as they happened to
come in.

"How are you, my children?" he would say. "Have you any news of your
parents? As for me, they never write to me."

The talk was quiet and intimate, of commonplace matters. There was
nothing remarkable in the man's mind, but much that was winning,
charming, and gracious. He had certainly been a good friend to them,
one of those good friends of whom we think the less because we feel
sure of them.

Now, reminiscences came readily to Pierre's mind. Having seen him
anxious from time to time, and suspecting his student's
impecuniousness, Marechal had of his own accord offered and lent him
money, a few hundred francs perhaps, forgotten by both, and never
repaid. Then this man must always have been fond of him, always have
taken an interest in him, since he thought of his needs. Well
then--well then--why leave his whole fortune to Jean? No, he had never
shown any more marked affection for the younger than for the elder,
had never been more interested in one than in the other, or seemed to
care more tenderly for this one or that one. Well then--well then--he
must have had some strong secret reason for leaving everything to
Jean--e