Roland had no opinion.
He repeated: “I do not want to hear anything about it. I will go and see it when it is all finished.”
Mme. Roland appealed to the judgment of her elder son.
“And you, Pierre, what do you think of the matter?”
His nerves were in a state of such intense excitement that he would have liked to reply with an oath.
However, he only answered in a dry tone quivering with annoyance.
“Oh, I am quite of Jean’s mind.
I like nothing so well as simplicity, which, in matters of taste, is equivalent to rectitude in matters of conduct.”
His mother went on:
“You must remember that we live in a city of commercial men, where good taste is not to be met with at every turn.”
Pierre replied:
“What does that matter?
Is that a reason for living as fools do?
If my fellow-townsmen are stupid and ill-bred, need I follow their example?
A woman does not misconduct herself because her neighbour has a lover.”
Jean began to laugh. “You argue by comparisons which seem to have been borrowed from the maxims of a moralist.”
Pierre made no reply.
His mother and his brother reverted to the question of stuffs and arm-chairs.
He sat looking at them as he had looked at his mother in the morning before starting for Trouville; looking at them as a stranger who would study them, and he felt as though he had really suddenly come into a family of which he knew nothing.
His father, above all, amazed his eyes and his mind.
That flabby, burly man, happy and besotted, was his own father!
No, no; Jean was not in the least like him.
His family!
Within these two days an unknown and malignant hand, the hand of a dead man, had torn asunder and broken, one by one, all the ties which had held these four human beings together.
It was all over, all ruined.
He had now no mother—for he could no longer love her now that he could not revere her with that perfect, tender, and pious respect which a son’s love demands; no brother—since his brother was the child of a stranger; nothing was left him but his father, that coarse man whom he could not love in spite of himself.
And he suddenly broke out:
“I say, mother, have you found that portrait?”
She opened her eyes in surprise.
“What portrait?”
“The portrait of Marechal.”
“No—that is to say—yes—I have not found it, but I think I know where it is.”
“What is that?” asked Roland.
And Pierre answered:
“A little likeness of Marechal which used to be in the dining-room in Paris.
I thought that Jean might be glad to have it.”
Roland exclaimed:
“Why, yes, to be sure; I remember it perfectly. I saw it again last week.
Your mother found it in her desk when she was tidying the papers. It was on Thursday or Friday. Do you remember, Louise?
I was shaving myself when you took it out and laid in on a chair by your side with a pile of letters of which you burned half. Strange, isn’t it, that you should have come across the portrait only two or three days before Jean heard of his legacy? If I believed in presentiments I should think that this was one.”
Mme. Roland calmly replied:
“Yes, I know where it is. I will fetch it presently.”
Then she had lied!
When she had said that very morning to her son who had asked her what had become of the miniature:
“I don’t exactly know—perhaps it is in my desk”—it was a lie!
She had seen it, touched it, handled it, gazed at it but a few days since; and then she had hidden it away again in the secret drawer with those letters—his letters.
Pierre looked at the mother who had lied to him; looked at her with the concentrated fury of a son who had been cheated, robbed of his most sacred affection, and with the jealous wrath of a man who, after long being blind, at last discovers a disgraceful betrayal.
If he had been that woman’s husband—and not her child—he would have gripped her by the wrists, seized her by the shoulders or the hair, have flung her on the ground, have hit her, hurt her, crushed her!
And he might say nothing, do nothing, show nothing, reveal nothing. He was her son; he had no vengeance to take.
And he had not been deceived. Nay, but she had deceived his tenderness, his pious respect.