voice answered with such another moan, but farther
away; then, close by, the fog-horn on the pier gave out a fearful sound
in answer. Pierre made for the jetty with long steps, thinking no
more of anything, content to walk on into this ominous and bellowing
darkness.

When he had seated himself at the end of the breakwater he closed his
eyes, that he might not see the two electric lights, now blurred by the
fog, which make the harbour accessible at night, and the red glare
of the light on the south 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 words 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 and 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, forgot