On the 1st of October the Lorraine from Saint-Nazaire, came into the harbour of Havre to sail on the 7th, bound for New York, and Pierre Roland was to take possession of the little floating cabin in which henceforth his life was to be confined.

Next day as he was going out, he met his mother on the stairs waiting for him, to murmur in an almost inaudible voice: 

“You would not like me to help you to put things to rights on board?”

“No, thank you.  Everything is done.”

Then she said: 

“I should have liked to see your cabin.”

“There is nothing to see.  It is very small and very ugly.”

And he went downstairs, leaving her stricken, leaning against the wall with a wan face.

Now Roland, who had gone over the Lorraine that very day, could talk of nothing all dinnertime but this splendid vessel, and wondered that his wife should not care to see it as their son was to sail on board.

Pierre had scarcely any intercourse with his family during the days which followed.  He was nervous, irritable, hard, and his rough speech seemed to lash every one indiscriminately.  But the day before he left he was suddenly quite changed, and much softened.  As he embraced his parents before going to sleep on board for the first time he said: 

“You will come to say good-bye to me on board, will you not?”

Roland exclaimed: 

“Why, yes, of course—­of course, Louise?”

“Certainly, certainly,” she said in a low voice.

Pierre went on:  “We sail at eleven precisely.  You must be there by half-past nine at the latest.”

“Hah!” cried his father.  “A good idea!  As soon as we have bid you good-bye, we will make haste on board the Pearl, and look out for you beyond the jetty, so as to see you once more.  What do you say, Louise?”

“Certainly.”

Roland went on:  “And in that way you will not lose sight of us among the crowd which throngs the breakwater when the great liners sail.  It is impossible to distinguish your own friends in the mob.  Does that meet your views?”

“Yes, to be sure; that is settled.”

An hour later he was lying in his berth—­a little crib as long and narrow as a coffin.  There he remained with his eyes wide open for a long time, thinking over all that had happened during the last two months of his life, especially in his own soul.  By dint of suffering and making others suffer, his aggressive and revengeful anguish had lost its edge, like a blunted sword.  He scarcely had the heart left in him to owe any one or anything a grudge; he let his rebellious wrath float away down stream, as his life must.  He was so weary of wrestling, weary of fighting, weary of hating, weary of everything, that he was quite worn out, and tried to stupefy his heart with forgetfulness as he dropped asleep.  He heard vaguely, all about him, the unwonted noises of the ship, slight noises, and scarcely audible on this calm night in port; and he felt no more of the dreadful wound which had tortured him hitherto, but the discomfort and strain of its healing.