“Come in.”

He went in.  The elder was writing, leaning over his table.

“Good-morning,” said Jean.

Pierre rose.

“Good-morning!” and they shook hands as if nothing had occurred.

“Are you not coming down to breakfast?”

“Well—­you see—­I have a good deal to do.”  The elder brother’s voice was tremulous, and his anxious eye asked his younger brother what he meant to do.

“They are waiting for you.”

“Oh!  There is—­is my mother down?”

“Yes, it was she who sent me to fetch you.”

“Ah, very well; then I will come.”

At the door of the dining-room he paused, doubtful about going in first; then he abruptly opened the door and saw his father and mother seated at the table opposite each other.

He went straight up to her without looking at her or saying a word, and bending over her, offered his forehead for her to kiss, as he had done for some time past, instead of kissing her on both cheeks as of old.  He supposed that she put her lips near but he did not feel them on his brow, and he straightened himself with a throbbing heart after this feint of a caress.  And he wondered: 

“What did they say to each other after I had left?”

Jean constantly addressed her tenderly as “mother,” or “dear mother,” took care of her, waited on her, and poured out her wine.

Then Pierre understood that they had wept together, but he could not read their minds.  Did Jean believe in his mother’s guilt, or think his brother a base wretch?

And all his self-reproach for having uttered the horrible thing came upon him again, choking his throat and his tongue, and preventing his either eating or speaking.

He was now a prey to an intolerable desire to fly, to leave the house which was his home no longer, and these persons who were bound to him by such imperceptible ties.  He would gladly have been off that moment, no matter whither, feeling that everything was over, that he could not endure to stay with them, that his presence was torture to them, and that they would bring on him incessant suffering too great to endure.  Jean was talking, chatting with Roland.  Pierre, as he did not listen, did not hear.  But he presently was aware of a pointed tone in his brother’s voice and paid more attention to his words.  Jean was saying: 

“She will be the finest ship in their fleet.  They say she is of 6,500 tons.  She is to make her first trip next month.”

Roland was amazed.

“So soon?  I thought she was not to be ready for sea this summer.”

“Yes.  The work has been pushed forward very vigorously, to get her through her first voyage before the autumn.  I looked in at the Company’s office this morning, and was talking to one of the directors.”

“Indeed!  Which of them?”

“M.  Marchand, who is a great friend of the Chairman of the Board.”