He was waited on by two maids, both old women who had been in the habit—­a very old one, no doubt—­of saying “Monsieur Pierre” and “Monsieur Jean.”  Marechal would hold out both hands, the right hand to one of the young men, the left to the other, as they happened to come in.

“How are you, my children?” he would say.  “Have you any news of your parents?  As for me, they never write to me.”

The talk was quiet and intimate, of commonplace matters.  There was nothing remarkable in the man’s mind, but much that was winning, charming, and gracious.  He had certainly been a good friend to them, one of those good friends of whom we think the less because we feel sure of them.

Now, reminiscences came readily to Pierre’s mind.  Having seen him anxious from time to time, and suspecting his student’s impecuniousness, Marechal had of his own accord offered and lent him money, a few hundred francs perhaps, forgotten by both, and never repaid.  Then this man must always have been fond of him, always have taken an interest in him, since he thought of his needs.  Well then—­well then—­why leave his whole fortune to Jean?  No, he had never shown more marked affection for the younger than for the elder, had never been more interested in one than in the other, or seemed to care more tenderly for this one or that one.  Well then—­well then—­he must have had some strong secret reason for leaving everything to Jean—­everything—­and nothing to Pierre.

The more he thought, the more he recalled the past few years, the more extraordinary, the more incredible was it that he should have made such a difference between them.  And an agonizing pang of unspeakable anguish piercing his bosom made his heart beat like a fluttering rag.  Its springs seemed broken, and the blood rushed through in a flood, unchecked, tossing it with wild surges.

Then in an undertone, as a man speaks in a nightmare, he muttered:  “I must know.  My God!  I must know.”

He looked further back now, to an earlier time, when his parents had lived in Paris.  But the faces escaped him, and this confused his recollections.  He struggled above all to see Marechal, with light, or brown, or black hair.  But he could not; the later image, his face as an old man, blotted out all others.  However, he remembered that he had been slighter, and had a soft hand, and that he often brought flowers.  Very often—­for his father would constantly say:  “What, another bouquet!  But this is madness, my dear fellow; you will ruin yourself in roses.”  And Marechal would say:  “No matter; I like it.”

And suddenly his mother’s voice and accent, his mother’s as she smiled and said:  “Thank you, my kind friend,” flashed on his brain, so clearly that he could have believed he heard her.  She must have spoken those words very often that they should remain thus graven on her son’s memory.