red, as though she were thinking aloud:

"Ah, he was a good friend, very devoted, very faithful, a rare soul in
these days."

Jean got up.

"I shall go out for a little walk," he said.

His father was surprised and tried to keep him; they had much to talk
about, plans to be made, decisions to be formed. But the young man
insisted, declaring that he had an engagement. Besides, there would be
time enough for settling everything before he came into possession of
his inheritance. So he went away, for he wished to be alone to reflect.
Pierre, on his part, said that he too was going out, and after a few
minutes followed his brother.

As soon as he was alone with his wife, father Roland took her in
his arms, kissed her a dozen times on each cheek, and, replying to a
reproach she had often brought against him, said:

"You see, my dearest, that it would have been no good to stay any longer
in Paris and work for the children till I dropped, instead of coming
here to recruit my health, since fortune drops on us from the skies."

She was quite serious.

"It drops from the skies on Jean," she said. "But Pierre?"

"Pierre? But he is a doctor; he will make plenty of money; besides, his
brother will surely do something for him."

"No, he would not take it. Besides, this legacy is for Jean, only for
Jean. Pierre will find himself at a great disadvantage."

The old fellow seemed perplexed: "Well, then, we will leave him rather
more in our will."

"No; that again would not be quite just."

"Drat it all!" he exclaimed. "What do you want me to do in the matter?
You always hit on a whole heap of disagreeable ideas. You must spoil all
my pleasures. Well, I am going to bed. Good-night. All the same, I call
it good luck, jolly good luck!"

And he went off, delighted in spite of everything, and without a word of
regret for the friend so generous in his death.

Mme. Roland sat thinking again in front of the lamp which was burning
out.

CHAPTER II

As soon as he got out, Pierre made his way to the Rue de Paris, the
high-street of Havre, brightly lighted up, lively and noisy. The rather
sharp air of the seacoast kissed his face, and he walked slowly, his
stick under his arm and his hands behind his back. He was ill at ease,
oppressed, out of heart, as one is after hearing unpleasant tidings.
He was not distressed by any definite thought, and he would have been
puzzled to account, on the spur of the moment, for this dejecti