Under any other circumstances he would certainly not have understood, not have imagined the possibility of such an insinuation against his poor mother, who was so kind, so simple, so excellent.  But his spirit seethed with the leaven of jealousy that was fermenting within him.  His own excited mind, on the scent, as it were, in spite of himself, for all that could damage his brother, had even perhaps attributed to the tavern barmaid an odious intention of which she was innocent.  It was possible that his imagination had, unaided, invented this dreadful doubt—­his imagination, which he never controlled, which constantly evaded his will and went off, unfettered, audacious, adventurous, and stealthy, into the infinite world of ideas, bringing back now and then some which were shameless and repulsive, and which it buried in him, in the depths of his soul, in its most fathomless recesses, like something stolen.  His heart, most certainly, his own heart had secrets from him; and had not that wounded heart discerned in this atrocious doubt a means of depriving his brother of the inheritance of which he was jealous?  He suspected himself now, cross-examining all the mysteries of his mind as bigots search their consciences.

Mme. Rosemilly, though her intelligence was limited, had certainly a woman’s instinct, scent, and subtle intuitions.  And this notion had never entered her head, since she had, with perfect simplicity, drunk to the blessed memory of the deceased Marechal.  She was not the woman to have done this if she had had the faintest suspicion.  Now he doubted no longer; his involuntary displeasure at his brother’s windfall of fortune and his religious affection for his mother had magnified his scruples—­very pious and respectable scruples, but exaggerated.  As he put this conclusion into words in his own mind he felt happy, as at the doing of a good action; and he resolved to be nice to every one, beginning with his father, whose manias, and silly statements, and vulgar opinions, and too conspicuous mediocrity were a constant irritation to him.

He came in not late for breakfast, and amused all the family by his fun and good humour.

His mother, quite delighted, said to him: 

“My little Pierre, you have no notion how humorous and clever you can be when you choose.”

And he talked, putting things in a witty way, and making them laugh by ingenious hits at their friends.  Beausire was his butt, and Mme. Rosemilly a little, but in a very judicious way, not too spiteful.  And he thought as he looked at his brother:  “Stand up for her, you muff.  You may be as rich as you please, I can always eclipse you when I take the trouble.”

As they drank their coffee he said to his father: 

“Are you going out in the Pearl to-day?”

“No, my boy.”

“May I have her with Jean Bart?”

“To be sure, as long as you like.”

He bought a good cigar at the first tobacconist’s and went down to the quay with a light step.  He glanced up at the sky, which was clear and luminous, of a pale blue, freshly swept by the sea-breeze.