“For my part, whenever I come here I am seized with a wild desire to be off with all those boats, to the north or the south.  Only to think that all those little sparks out there have just come from the uttermost ends of the earth, from the lands of great flowers and beautiful olive or copper coloured girls, the lands of humming-birds, of elephants, of roaming lions, of negro kings, from all the lands which are like fairy-tales to us who no longer believe in the White Cat or the Sleeping Beauty.  It would be awfully jolly to be able to treat one’s self to an excursion out there; but, then, it would cost a great deal of money, no end—­”

He broke off abruptly, remembering that his brother had that money now; and released from care, released from labouring for his daily bread, free, unfettered, happy, and light-hearted, he might go whither he listed, to find the fair-haired Swedes or the brown damsels of Havana.  And then one of those involuntary flashes which were common with him, so sudden and swift that he could neither anticipate them, nor stop them, nor qualify them, communicated, as it seemed to him, from some second, independent, and violent soul, shot through his brain.

“Bah!  He is too great a simpleton; he will marry that little Rosemilly.”  He was standing up now.  “I will leave you to dream of the future.  I want to be moving.”  He grasped his brother’s hand and added in a heavy tone: 

“Well, my dear old boy, you are a rich man.  I am very glad to have come upon you this evening to tell you how pleased I am about it, how truly I congratulate you, and how much I care for you.”

Jean, tender and soft-hearted, was deeply touched.

“Thank you, my good brother—­thank you!” he stammered.

And Pierre turned away with his slow step, his stick under his arm, and his hands behind his back.

Back in the town again, he once more wondered what he should do, being disappointed of his walk and deprived of the company of the sea by his brother’s presence.  He had an inspiration.  “I will go and take a glass of liqueur with old Marowsko,” and he went off towards the quarter of the town known as Ingouville.

He had known old Marowsko-le pere Marowsko, he called him—­in the hospitals in Paris.  He was a Pole, an old refugee, it was said, who had gone through terrible things out there, and who had come to ply his calling as a chemist and druggist in France after passing a fresh examination.  Nothing was known of his early life, and all sorts of legends had been current among the indoor and outdoor patients and afterward among his neighbours.  This reputation as a terrible conspirator, a nihilist, a regicide, a patriot ready for anything and everything, who had escaped death by a miracle, had bewitched Pierre Roland’s lively and bold imagination; he had made friends with the old Pole, without, however, having ever extracted from him any revelation as to his former career.  It was owing to the young doctor that this worthy had come to settle at Havre, counting on the large custom which the rising practitioner would secure him.  Meanwhile he lived very poorly in his little shop, selling medicines to the small tradesmen and workmen in his part of the town.