The doctor replied:  “The fact is I am terribly conscious of the burden of life.”

The old man did not have a notion what he meant, and with an aggrieved look he went on:  “It really is too bad.  Ever since we had the good luck to come into this legacy, every one seems unhappy.  It is as though some accident had befallen us, as if we were in mourning for some one.”

“I am in mourning for some one,” said Pierre.

“You are?  For whom?”

“For some one you never knew, and of whom I was too fond.”

Roland imagined that his son alluded to some girl with whom he had had some love passages, and he said: 

“A woman, I suppose.”

“Yes, a woman.”

“Dead?”

“No.  Worse.  Ruined!”

“Ah!”

Though he was startled by this unexpected confidence, in his wife’s presence too, and by his son’s strange tone about it, the old man made no further inquiries, for in his opinion such affairs did not concern a third person.

Mme. Roland affected not to hear; she seemed ill and was very pale.  Several times already her husband, surprised to see her sit down as if she were dropping into her chair, and to hear her gasp as if she could not draw her breath, had said: 

“Really, Louise, you look very ill; you tire yourself too much with helping Jean.  Give yourself a little rest.  Sacristi!  The rascal is in no hurry, as he is a rich man.”

She shook her head without a word.

But to-day her pallor was so great that Roland remarked on it again.

“Come, come,” said he, “this will not do at all, my dear old woman.  You must take care of yourself.”  Then, addressing his son, “You surely must see that your mother is ill.  Have you questioned her, at any rate?”

Pierre replied:  “No; I had not noticed that there was anything the matter with her.”

At this Roland was angry.

“But it stares you in the face, confound you!  What on earth is the good of your being a doctor if you cannot even see that your mother is out of sorts?  Why, look at her, just look at her.  Really, a man might die under his very eyes and this doctor would never think there was anything the matter!”

Mme. Roland was panting for breath, and so white that her husband exclaimed: 

“She is going to faint.”

“No, no, it is nothing—­I shall get better directly—­it is nothing.”

Pierre had gone up to her and was looking at her steadily.

“What ails you?” he said.  And she repeated in an undertone: 

“Nothing, nothing—­I assure you, nothing.”

Roland had gone to fetch some vinegar; he now returned, and handing the bottle to his son he said: 

“Here—­do something to ease her.  Have you felt her heart?”

As Pierre bent over her to feel her pulse she pulled away her hand so vehemently that she struck it against a chair which was standing by.