Pierre, leaning over him, gazed at him with hungry eagerness.  No, this youngster was not in the least like Roland; and for the second time the recollection of the little portrait of Marechal, which had vanished, recurred to his mind.  He must find it!  When he should see it perhaps he should cease to doubt!

His brother stirred, conscious no doubt of a presence, or disturbed by the light of the taper on his eyelids.  The doctor retired on tip-toe to the door which he noiselessly closed; then he went back to his room, but not to bed again.

Day was long in coming.  The hours struck one after another on the dining-room clock, and its tone was a deep and solemn one, as though the little piece of clockwork had swallowed a cathedral-bell.  The sound rose through the empty staircase, penetrating through walls and doors, and dying away in the rooms where it fell on the torpid ears of the sleeping household.  Pierre had taken to walking to and fro between his bed and the window.  What was he going to do?  He was too much upset to spend this day at home.  He wanted still to be alone, at any rate till the next day, to reflect, to compose himself, to strengthen himself for the common every-day life which he must take up again.

Well, he would go over to Trouville to see the swarming crowd on the sands.  That would amuse him, change the air of his thoughts, and give him time to inure himself to the horrible thing he had discovered.  As soon as morning dawned he made his toilet and dressed.  The fog had vanished and it was fine, very fine.  As the boat for Trouville did not start till nine, it struck the doctor that he must greet his mother before starting.

He waited till the hour at which she was accustomed to get up, and then went downstairs.  His heart beat so violently as he touched her door that he paused for breath.  His hand as it lay on the lock was limp and tremulous, almost incapable of the slight effort of turning the handle to open it.  He knocked.  His mother’s voice inquired: 

“Who is there?”

“I—­Pierre.”

“What do you want?”

“Only to say good-morning, because I am going to spend the day at Trouville with some friends.”

“But I am still in bed.”

“Very well, do not disturb yourself.  I shall see you this evening, when I come in.”

He hoped to get off without seeing her, without pressing on her cheek the false kiss which it made his heart sick to think of.  But she replied: 

“No.  Wait a moment.  I will let you in.  Wait till I get into bed again.”

He heard her bare feet on the floor and the sound of the bolt drawn back.  Then she called out: 

“Come in.”

He went in.  She was sitting up in bed, while, by her side, Roland, with a silk handkerchief by way of night-cap and his face to the wall, still lay sleeping.  Nothing ever woke him but a shaking hard enough to pull his arm off.  On the days when he went fishing it was Josephine, rung up by Papagris at the hour fixed, who roused her master from his stubborn slumbers.