“Here it is,” said she, “I found it at once.”

The doctor was the first to put forth his hand; he took the picture, and holding it a little away from him, he examined it.  Then, fully aware that his mother was looking at him, he slowly raised his eyes and fixed them on his brother to compare the faces.  He could hardly refrain, in his violence, from saying:  “Dear me!  How like Jean!” And though he dared not utter the terrible words, he betrayed his thought by his manner of comparing the living face with the painted one.

They had, no doubt, details in common; the same beard, the same brow; but nothing sufficiently marked to justify the assertion:  “This is the father and that the son.”  It was rather a family likeness, a relationship of physiognomies in which the same blood courses.  But what to Pierre was far more decisive than the common aspect of the faces, was that his mother had risen, had turned her back, and was pretending, too deliberately, to be putting the sugar basin and the liqueur bottle away in a cupboard.  She understood that he knew, or at any rate had his suspicions.

“Hand it on to me,” said Roland.

Pierre held out the miniature and his father drew the candle towards him to see it better; then, he murmured in a pathetic tone: 

“Poor fellow!  To think that he was like that when we first knew him!  Cristi!  How time flies!  He was a good-looking man, too, in those days, and with such a pleasant manner—­was not he, Louise?”

As his wife made no answer he went on: 

“And what an even temper!  I never saw him put out.  And now it is all at an end—­nothing left of him—­but what he bequeathed to Jean.  Well, at any rate you may take your oath that that man was a good and faithful friend to the last.  Even on his death-bed he did not forget us.”

Jean, in his turn, held out his hand for the picture.  He gazed at it for a few minutes and then said regretfully: 

“I do not recognise it at all.  I only remember him with white hair.”

He returned the miniature to his mother.  She cast a hasty glance at it, looking away as if she were frightened; then in her usual voice she said: 

“It belongs to you now, my little Jean, as you are his heir.  We will take it to your new rooms.”  And when they went into the drawing-room she placed the picture on the chimney-shelf by the clock, where it had formerly stood.

Roland filled his pipe; Pierre and Jean lighted cigarettes.  They commonly smoked them, Pierre while he paced the room, Jean, sunk in a deep arm-chair, with his legs crossed.  Their father always sat astride a chair and spat from afar into the fire-place.

Mme. Roland, on a low seat by a little table on which the lamp stood, embroidered, or knitted, or marked linen.

This evening she was beginning a piece of worsted work, intended for Jean’s lodgings.  It was a difficult and complicated pattern, and required all her attention.  Still, now and again, her eye, which was counting the stitches, glanced up swiftly and furtively at the little portrait of the dead as it leaned against the clock.  And the doctor, who was striding to and fro across the little room in four or five steps, met his mother’s look at each turn.