m the bowels of the
houses--the stench of cellars, drains, sewers, squalid kitchens--to
mingle with the horrible savour of this wandering fog.

Pierre, with his shoulders up and his hands in his pockets, not caring
to remain out of doors in the cold, turned into Marowsko's. The
druggist was asleep as usual under the gas-light, which kept watch. On
recognising Pierre for whom he had the affection of a faithful dog,
he shook off his drowsiness, went for two glasses, and brought out the
_Groseillette_.

"Well," said the doctor, "how is the liqueur getting on?"

The Pole explained that four of the chief cafes in the town had agreed
to have it on sale, and that two papers, the _Northcoast Pharos_ and the
_Havre Semaphore_, would advertise it, in return for certain chemical
preparations to be supplied to the editors.

After a long silence Marowsko asked whether Jean had come definitely
into possession of his fortune; and then he put two or three other
questions vaguely referring to the same subject. His jealous devotion
to Pierre rebelled against this preference. And Pierre felt as though he
could hear him thinking; he guessed and understood, read in his averted
eyes and in the hesitancy of his tone, the words which rose to his lips
but were not spoken--which the druggist was too timid or too prudent and
cautious to utter.

At this moment, he felt sure, the old man was thinking: "You ought not
to have suffered him to accept this inheritance which will make people
speak ill of your mother."

Perhaps, indeed, Marowsko believed that Jean was Marechal's son. Of
course he believed it! How could he help believing it when the thing
must seem so possible, so probable, self-evident? Why, he himself,
Pierre, her son--had not he been for these three days past fighting with
all the subtlety at his command to cheat his reason, fighting against
this hideous suspicion?

And suddenly the need to be alone, to reflect, to discuss the matter
with himself--to face boldly, without scruple or weakness, this possible
but monstrous thing--came upon him anew, and so imperative that he rose
without even drinking his glass of _Groseillette_, shook hands with the
astounded druggist, and plunged out into the foggy streets again.

He asked himself: "What made this Marechal leave all his fortune to
Jean?"

It was not jealousy now which made him dwell on this question, not the
rather mean but natural envy which he knew lurked within him, and with