When they had returned to the drawing-room Jean abruptly threw open the door to the left, showing the circular dining-room with three windows, and decorated to imitate a Chinese lantern.  Mother and son had here lavished all the fancy of which they were capable, and the room, with its bamboo furniture, its mandarins, jars, silk hangings glistening with gold, transparent blinds threaded with beads looking like drops of water, fans nailed to the wall to drape the hangings on, screens, swords, masks, cranes made of real feathers, and a myriad trifles in china, wood, paper, ivory, mother-of-pearl, and bronze, had the pretentious and extravagant aspect which unpractised hands and uneducated eyes inevitably stamp on things which need the utmost tact, taste, and artistic education.  Nevertheless it was the most admired; only Pierre made some observations with rather bitter irony which hurt his brother’s feelings.

Pyramids of fruit stood on the table and monuments of cakes.  No one was hungry; they picked at the fruit and nibbled at the cakes rather than ate them.  Then, at the end of about an hour, Mme. Rosemilly begged to take leave.  It was decided that old Roland should accompany her home and set out with her forthwith; while Mme. Roland, in the maid’s absence, should cast a maternal eye over the house and see that her son had all he needed.

“Shall I come back for you?” asked Roland.

She hesitated a moment and then said:  “No, dear old man; go to bed.  Pierre will see me home.”

As soon as they were gone she blew out the candles, locked up the cakes, the sugar, and liqueurs in a cupboard of which she gave the key to Jean; then she went into the bed-room, turned down the bed, saw that there was fresh water in the water-bottle, and that the window was properly closed.

Pierre and Jean had remained in the little outer drawing-room; the younger still sore under the criticism passed on his taste, and the elder chafing more and more at seeing his brother in this abode.  They both sat smoking without a word.  Pierre suddenly started to his feet.

“Cristi!” he exclaimed.  “The widow looked very jaded this evening.  Long excursions do not improve her.”

Jean felt his spirit rising with one of those sudden and furious rages which boil up in easy-going natures when they are wounded to the quick.  He could hardly find breath to speak, so fierce was his excitement, and he stammered out: 

“I forbid you ever again to say ‘the widow’ when you speak of Mme. Rosemilly.”

Pierre turned on him haughtily: 

“You are giving me an order, I believe.  Are you gone mad by any chance?”

Jean had pulled himself up.

“I am not gone mad, but I have had enough of your manners to me.”

Pierre sneered:  “To you?  And are you any part of Mme. Rosemilly?”

“You are to know that Mme. Rosemilly is about to become my wife.”