As he made his way home he was thinking that he must see his brother alone, so as not to speak of such a matter in the presence of his parents.  On reaching the door he heard a great noise of voices and laughter in the drawing-room, and when he went in he found Captain Beausire and Mme. Rosemilly, whom his father had brought home and engaged to dine with them in honour of the good news.  Vermouth and absinthe had been served to whet their appetites, and every one had been at once put into good spirits.  Captain Beausire, a funny little man who had become quite round by dint of being rolled about at sea, and whose ideas also seemed to have been worn round, like the pebbles of a beach, while he laughed with his throat full of r’s, looked upon life as a capital thing, in which everything that might turn up was good to take.  He clinked his glass against father Roland’s, while Jean was offering two freshly filled glasses to the ladies.  Mme. Rosemilly refused, till Captain Beausire, who had known her husband, cried: 

“Come, come, madame, bis repetita placent, as we say in the lingo, which is as much as to say two glasses of vermouth never hurt any one.  Look at me; since I have left the sea, in this way I give myself an artificial roll or two every day before dinner; I add a little pitching after my coffee, and that keeps things lively for the rest of the evening.  I never rise to a hurricane, mind you, never, never.  I am too much afraid of damage.”

Roland, whose nautical mania was humoured by the old mariner, laughed heartily, his face flushed already and his eye watery from the absinthe.  He had a burly shop-keeping stomach—­nothing but stomach—­in which the rest of his body seemed to have got stowed away; the flabby paunch of men who spend their lives sitting, and who have neither thighs, nor chest, nor arms, nor neck; the seat of their chairs having accumulated all their substance in one spot.  Beausire, on the contrary, though short and stout, was as tight as an egg and as hard as a cannon-ball.

Mme. Roland had not emptied her glass and was gazing at her son Jean with sparkling eyes; happiness had brought a colour to her cheeks.

In him, too, the fulness of joy had now blazed out.  It was a settled thing, signed and sealed; he had twenty thousand francs a year.  In the sound of his laugh, in the fuller voice with which he spoke, in his way of looking at the others, his more positive manners, his greater confidence, the assurance given by money was at once perceptible.

Dinner was announced, and as the old man was about to offer his arm to Mme. Rosemilly, his wife exclaimed: 

“No, no, father.  Everything is for Jean to-day.”

Unwonted luxury graced the table.  In front of Jean, who sat in his father’s place, an enormous bouquet of flowers—­a bouquet for a really great occasion—­stood up like a cupola dressed with flags, and was flanked by four high dishes, one containing a pyramid of splendid peaches; the second, a monumental cake gorged with whipped cream and covered with pinnacles of sugar—­a cathedral in confectionery; the third, slices of pine-apple floating in clear sirup; and the fourth—­unheard-of lavishness—­black grapes brought from the warmer south.