packet wrapped in white
paper which she held in the other hand.

"What is that?" he asked. Then, as she made no reply, he understood,
recognizing the shape of the frame.

"Give it to me!" he said.

She pretended not to hear him, and went back to the linen cupboards.
He got up hastily, took the melancholy relic, and going across the
room, put it in the drawer of his writing table which he locked and
doubled locked. She wiped away a tear with the tip of her finger, and
said in a rather quavering voice: "Now I am going to see whether your
new servant keeps the kitchen in good order. As she is out I can look
into everything and make sure."

CHAPTER IX

Letters of recommendation from Professors Mas-Roussel, Remusot,
Flache, and Borriquel, written in the most flattering terms with
regard to Doctor Pierre Roland, their pupil, had been submitted by
Monsieur Marchand to the directors of the Transatlantic Shipping
Company, seconded by M. Poulin, judge of the Chamber of Commerce, M.
Lenient, a great ship-owner, and M. Marival, deputy to the Mayor of
Havre, and a particular friend of Captain Beausire's. It proved that
no medical officer had yet been appointed to the _Lorraine_, and
Pierre was lucky enough to be nominated within a few days.

The letter announcing it was handed to him one morning by Josephine,
just as he was dressed. His first feeling was that of a man condemned
to death who is told that his sentence is commuted; he had an
immediate sense of relief at the thought of his early departure and of
the peaceful life on board, cradled by the rolling waves, always
wandering, always moving. His life under his father's roof was now
that of a stranger, silent and reserved. Ever since the 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