ty, of rebellion choked down for so
long past, all his unspoken despair mounted to his brain, bewildering it
like a fit.

"How dare you? How dare you? I order you to hold your tongue--do you
hear? I order you."

Jean, startled by his violence, was silent for a few seconds, trying
in the confusion of mind which comes of rage to hit on the thing, the
phrase, the word, which might stab his brother to the heart. He went on,
with an effort to control himself that he might aim true, and to speak
slowly that the words might hit more keenly:

"I have known for a long time that you were jealous of me, ever since
the day when you first began to talk of 'the widow' because you knew it
annoyed me."

Pierre broke into one of those strident and scornful laughs which were
common with him.

"Ah! ah! Good Heavens! Jealous of you! I? I? And of what? Good God! Of
your person or your mind?"

But Jean knew full well that he had touched the wound in his soul.

"Yes, jealous of me--jealous from your childhood up. And it became fury
when you saw that this woman liked me best and would have nothing to say
to you."

Pierre, stung to the quick by this assumption, stuttered out:

"I? I? Jealous of you? And for the sake of that goose, that gaby, that
simpleton?"

Jean, seeing that he was aiming true, went on:

"And how about the day when you tried to pull me round in the Pearl?
And all you said in her presence to show off? Why, you are bursting
with jealousy! And when this money was left to me you were maddened, you
hated me, you showed it in every possible way, and made every one suffer
for it; not an hour passes that you do not spit out the bile that is
choking you."

Pierre clenched his fist in his fury with an almost irresistible impulse
to fly at his brother and seize him by the throat.

"Hold your tongue," he cried. "At least say nothing about that money."

Jean went on:

"Why your jealousy oozes out at every pore. You never say a word to my
father, my mother, or me that does not declare it plainly. You pretend
to despise me because you are jealous. You try to pick a quarrel with
every one because you are jealous. And now that I am rich you can no
longer contain yourself; you have become venomous, you torture our poor
mother as if she were to blame!"

Pierre had retired step by step as far as the fire-place, his mouth half
open, his eyes glaring, a prey to one of those mad fits of passion in
which a crime is committed.