Suddenly Pierre stamped his foot.

“I am a brute,” he cried, “to have told you this.”

And he fled, bare-headed, down the stairs.

The noise of the front-door closing with a slam roused Jean from the deep stupor into which he had fallen.  Some seconds had elapsed, longer than hours, and his spirit had sunk into the numb torpor of idiocy.  He was conscious, indeed, that he must presently think and act, but he would wait, refusing to understand, to know, to remember, out of fear, weakness, cowardice.  He was one of those procrastinators who put everything off till to-morrow; and when he was compelled to come to a decision then and there, still he instinctively tried to gain a few minutes.

But the perfect silence which now reigned, after Pierre’s vociferations, the sudden stillness of walls and furniture, with the bright light of six wax candles and two lamps, terrified him so greatly that he suddenly longed to make his escape too.

Then he roused his brain, roused his heart, and tried to reflect.

Never in his life had he had to face a difficulty.  There are men who let themselves glide onward like running water.  He had been duteous over his tasks for fear of punishment, and had got through his legal studies with credit because his existence was tranquil.  Everything in the world seemed to him quite natural and never aroused his particular attention.  He loved order, steadiness, and peace, by temperament, his nature having no complications; and face to face with this catastrophe, he found himself like a man who has fallen into the water and cannot swim.

At first he tried to be incredulous.  His brother had told a lie, out of hatred and jealousy.  But yet, how could he have been so vile as to say such a thing of their mother if he had not himself been distraught by despair?  Besides, stamped on Jean’s ear, on his sight, on his nerves, on the inmost fibres of his flesh, were certain words, certain tones of anguish, certain gestures of Pierre’s, so full of suffering that they were irresistibly convincing; as incontrovertible as certainty itself.

He was too much crushed to stir or even to will.  His distress became unbearable; and he knew that behind the door was his mother who had heard everything and was waiting.

What was she doing?  Not a movement, not a shudder, not a breath, not a sigh revealed the presence of a living creature behind that panel.  Could she have run away?  But how?  If she had run away—­she must have jumped out of the window into the street.  A shock of terror roused him—­so violent and imperious that he drove the door in rather than opened it, and flung himself into the bed-room.

It was apparently empty, lighted by a single candle standing on the chest of drawers.

Jean flew to the window; it was shut and the shutters bolted.  He looked about him, peering into the dark corners with anxious eyes, and he then noticed that the bed-curtains were drawn.  He ran forward and opened them.  His mother was lying on the bed, her face buried in the pillow which she had pulled up over her ears that she might hear no more.