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 dejection of spirit and heaviness of limb.  He was hurt somewhere, without knowing where; somewhere within him there was a pin-point of pain—­one of those almost imperceptible wounds which we cannot lay a finger on, but which incommode us, tire us, depress us, irritate us—­a slight and occult pang, as it were a small seed of distress.

When he reached the square in front of the theatre, he was attracted by the lights in the Cafe Tortoni, and slowly bent his steps to the dazzling facade; but just as he was going in he reflected that he would meet friends there and acquaintances—­people he would be obliged to talk to; and fierce repugnance surged up in him for this commonplace good-fellowship over coffee cups and liqueur glasses.  So, retracing his steps, he went back to the high-street leading to the harbour.

“Where shall I go?” he asked himself, trying to think of a spot he liked which would agree with his frame of mind.  He could not think of one, for being alone made him feel fractious, yet he could not bear to meet any one.  As he came out on the Grand Quay he hesitated once more; then he turned towards the pier; he had chosen solitude.

Going close by a bench on the breakwater he sat down, tired already of walking and out of humour with his stroll before he had taken it.

He said to himself:  “What is the matter with me this evening?” And he began to search in his memory for what vexation had crossed him, as we question a sick man to discover the cause of his fever.