It used to be said that Fortune was blind, but I believe that she is only short-sighted or tricksy, and that she has lately bought a good pair of glasses which enabled her to discover in the town of Havre the son of our worthy friend Roland, skipper of the Pearl.”
Every one cried bravo and clapped their hands, and the elder Roland rose to reply.
After clearing his throat, for it felt thick and his tongue was heavy, he stammered out:
“Thank you, captain, thank you—for myself and my son.
I shall never forget your behaviour on this occasion.
Here’s good luck to you!”
His eyes and nose were full of tears, and he sat down, finding nothing more to say.
Jean, who was laughing, spoke in his turn:
“It is I,” said he, “who ought to thank my friends here, my excellent friends,” and he glanced at Mme. Rosemilly, “who have given me such a touching evidence of their affection. But it is not by words that I can prove my gratitude. I will prove it to-morrow, every hour of my life, always, for our friendship is not one of those which fade away.”
His mother, deeply moved, murmured:
“Well said, my boy.”
But Beausire cried out:
“Come, Mme. Rosemilly, speak on behalf of the fair sex.”
She raised her glass, and in a pretty voice, slightly touched with sadness, she said:
“I will pledge you to the memory of M. Marechal.”
There was a few moments’ lull, a pause for decent meditation, as after prayer. Beausire, who always had a flow of compliment, remarked:
“Only a woman ever thinks of these refinements.”
Then turning to Father Roland:
“And who was this Marechal, after all?
You must have been very intimate with him.”
The old man, emotional with drink, began to whimper, and in a broken voice he said:
“Like a brother, you know. Such a friend as one does not make twice—we were always together—he dined with us every evening—and would treat us to the play—I need say no more—no more—no more.
A true friend—a real true friend—wasn’t he, Louise?”
His wife merely answered:
“Yes; he was a faithful friend.”
Pierre looked at his father and then at his mother, then, as the subject changed he drank some more wine.
He scarcely remembered the remainder of the evening.
They had coffee, then liqueurs, and they laughed and joked a great deal.
At about midnight he went to bed, his mind confused and his head heavy; and he slept like a brute till nine next morning.
CHAPTER IV
These slumbers, lapped in Champagne and Chartreuse, had soothed and calmed him, no doubt, for he awoke in a very benevolent frame of mind.
While he was dressing he appraised, weighed, and summed up the agitations of the past day, trying to bring out quite clearly and fully their real and occult causes, those personal to himself as well as those from outside.
It was, in fact, possible that the girl at the beer-shop had had an evil suspicion—a suspicion worthy of such a hussy—on hearing that only one of the Roland brothers had been made heir to a stranger; but have not such natures as she always similar notions, without a shadow of foundation, about every honest woman?
Do they not, whenever they speak, vilify, calumniate, and abuse all whom they believe to be blameless?
Whenever a woman who is above imputation is mentioned in their presence, they are as angry as if they were being insulted, and exclaim:
“Ah, yes, I know your married women; a pretty sort they are!
Why, they have more lovers than we have, only they conceal it because they are such hypocrites.
Oh, yes, a pretty sort, indeed!”
Under any other circumstances he would certainly not have understood, not have imagined the possibility of such an insinuation against his poor mother, who was so kind, so simple, so excellent.
But his spirit seethed with the leaven of jealousy that was fermenting within him.
His own excited mind, on the scent, as it were, in spite of himself, for all that could damage his brother, had even perhaps attributed to the tavern barmaid an odious intention of which she was innocent.
It was possible that his imagination had, unaided, invented this dreadful doubt—his imagination, which he never controlled, which constantly evaded his will and went off, unfettered, audacious, adventurous, and stealthy, into the infinite world of ideas, bringing back now and then some which were shameless and repulsive, and which it buried in him, in the depths of his soul, in its most fathomless recesses, like something stolen.
His heart, most certainly, his own heart had secrets from him; and had not that wounded heart discerned in this atrocious doubt a means of depriving his brother of the inheritance of which he was jealous?
He suspected himself now, cross-examining all the mysteries of his mind as bigots search their consciences.
Mme. Rosemilly, though her intelligence was limited, had certainly a woman’s instinct, scent, and subtle intuitions.
And this notion had never entered her head, since she had, with perfect simplicity, drunk to the blessed memory of the deceased Marechal.
She was not the woman to have done this if she had had the faintest suspicion.
Now he doubted no longer; his involuntary displeasure at his brother’s windfall of fortune and his religious affection for his mother had magnified his scruples—very pious and respectable scruples, but exaggerated.
As he put this conclusion into words in his own mind he felt happy, as at the doing of a good action; and he resolved to be nice to every one, beginning with his father, whose manias, and silly statements, and vulgar opinions, and too conspicuous mediocrity were a constant irritation to him.
He came in not late for breakfast, and amused all the family by his fun and good humour.