Chapter 1 of Pierre and Jean Pierre and Jean by Guy de Montpeçon, translated by Clara Bell, recording by Lee Smalley. Chapter 1 Cha! exclaimed old Roland suddenly, after he had remained motionless for a quarter of an hour, his eyes fixed on the water, while now and again he very slightly lifted his line sunk in the sea. Madame Roland, dozing in the stern by the side of Madame Rose Mille, who had been invited to join the fishing-party, woke up and turning her head to look at her husband, said, Well, well, Jérôme! and the old fellow replied in a fury. They do not bite at all. I have taken nothing since noon. Only men should ever go fishing. Women always delay the start till it is too late. His two sons, Pierre and Jean, who each held a line twisted round his forefinger, one to port and one to starboard, both began to laugh, and Jean remarked, You are not very polite to our guest, father. Monsieur Roland was abashed and apologized. I beg your pardon, Madame Rose Mille, but that is just like me. I invite ladies because I like to be with them, and then, as soon as I feel the water beneath me, I think of nothing but the fish. Madame Roland was now quite awake, and gazing with a softened look at the wide horizon of cliff and sea. You have had a good sport all the same, she murmured. But her husband shook his head in denial, though at the same time he glanced complacently at the basket where the fish caught by the three men were still breathing spasmodically, with a low rustle of clammy scales and struggling fins and dull ineffectual efforts gasping in the fatal air. Old Volant took the basket between his knees and tilted it up, making the silver heap of creatures slide to the edge that he might see those lying at the bottom, and their death throws becoming more convulsive, while the strong smell of their bodies, a wholesome reek of brine, came up from the full depths of the creel. The old fisherman sniffed it eagerly as we smell it roses, and exclaimed, Creasty! But they are fresh enough! And he went on, How many did you pull out, doctor? His eldest son, Pierre, a man of thirty, with black whiskers trimmed square like a lawyer's, his moustache and beard shaved away, replied, Oh, not many, three or four. The father turned to the younger. And you, Jean? said he. Jean, a tall fellow, much younger than his brother, fair, with a full beard, smiled and murmured, Much the same as Pierre, four or five. Every time they told the same fib, which delighted Father Hollande. He had hitched his line round a rollock, and folding his arms, he announced, I will never again try to fish afternoon. After ten in the morning it is all over, the lazy brutes will not bite, they are taking their siesta in the sun, and he looked round at the sea on all sides with the satisfied air of a proprietor. He was a retired jeweler, who had been led by an inordinate love of seafaring and fishing, to fly from the shop as soon as he had made enough money to live in modest comfort on the interest of his savings. He retired to Le Havre, bought a boat, and became an amateur skipper. His two sons, Pierre and Jean, had remained at Paris to continue their studies, and came home for the holidays from time to time to share their father's amusements. On leaving school, Pierre, the elder, five years older than Jean, had felt a vocation to various professions, and had tried half a dozen in succession, but, soon disgusted with each in turn, he started afresh with new hopes. Medicine had been his last fancy, and he had set to work with so much ardour that he had just qualified after an unusually short course of study, by a special remission of time from the minister. He was enthusiastic, intelligent, fickle, but obstinate, full of utopias and philosophical notions. Jean, who was as fair as his brother was dark, as deliberate as his brother was vehement, as gentle as his brother was unforgiving, had quietly gone through his studies for the law, and had just taken his diploma as a licentiate, at the time when Pierre had taken his in medicine. So they were now having a little rest at home, and both looked forward to settling in Avre, if they could find a satisfactory opening. But a vague jealousy, one of those dormant jealousies which grow up between brothers or sisters, and slowly ripen till they burst, on the occasion of a marriage, perhaps, or of some good fortune happening to one of them, kept them on the alert in a sort of brotherly and non-aggressive animosity. They were fond of each other, it is true, but they watched each other. Pierre, five years old when Jean was born, had looked with the eyes of a little petted animal at the other little animal, which had suddenly come to lie in his father's and mother's arms, and to be loved and fondled by them. Jean, from his birth, had always been a pattern of sweetness, gentleness, and good temper, and Pierre, had by degrees, begun to chafe at everlastingly hearing the praises of this great lad, whose sweetness in his eyes was indolence, whose gentleness was stupidity, and whose kindness was blindness. His parents, whose dream for their sons was some respectable and undistinguished calling, blamed him for so often changing his mind, for his fits of enthusiasm, his abortive beginnings, and all his ineffectual impulses towards generous ideas and the liberal professions. Since he had grown to manhood, they no longer said in so many words, look at Jean and follow his example. But every time he heard them say, Jean did this, Jean does that, he understood their meaning and the hint the words conveyed. Their mother, an orderly person, a thrifty and rather sentimental woman of the middle class, with the soul of a soft-hearted bookkeeper, was constantly quenching the little rivalries between her two big sons, to which the petty events of their life constantly gave rise. Another little circumstance, too, just now disturbed her peace of mind, and she was in fear of some complications. For in the course of the winter, while her boys were finishing their studies, each in his own line, she had made the acquaintance of a neighbor, Madame Rosemey, the widow of a captain of a merchantman, who had died at sea two years before. The young widow, quite young, only three and twenty, a woman of strong intellect who knew life by instinct, as the free animals do, as though she had seen, gone through, understood, and waited every conceivable contingency, and judged them with a wholesome, strict and benevolent mind, had fallen into the habit of calling to work or chat for an hour in the evening with these friendly neighbors who would give her a cup of tea. Father Roland, always goaded on by his seafaring craze, would question their new friend about the departed captain, and she would talk of him and his voyages and his old world tales, without hesitation, like a resigned and reasonable woman who loves life and respects death. The two sons, on their return, finding the pretty widow quite at home in the house, forthwith began to court her, less from any wish to charm her, than from the desire to cut each other out. Their mother, being practical and prudent, sincerely hoped that one of them might win the young widow, for she was rich, but then she would have liked that the other should not be grieved. Madame Rosemey was fair, with blue eyes, a mass of light-waving hair, fluttering at the least breath of wind, and an alert, daring, pugnacious little way with her, which did not in the least answer to the sober method of her mind. She already seemed to like Jean best, attracted, no doubt, by an affinity of nature. This preference, however, she betrayed only by an almost imperceptible difference of voice and look, and also by occasionally asking his opinion. She seemed to guess that Jean's views would support her own, while those of Pierre must inevitably be different. When she spoke of the doctor's ideas on politics, art, philosophy, or morals, she would sometimes say, Your crochet! Then he would look at her with the cold gleam of an accuser, drawing up an indictment against women, all women, poor weak things. Never till his sons came home had Monsieur Roland invited her to join his fishing expeditions, nor had he ever taken his wife, for he liked to put off before daybreak, with his ally, Captain Bossier, a master mariner retired, whom he had first met on the quay at high tides, and with whom he had struck up an intimacy, and the old sailor Papagry, known as Jean Bart, in whose charge the boat was left. But one evening of the week before, Madame Wozmie, who had been dining with them, remarked, It must be great fun to go out fishing. The jeweler, flattered by her interest, then suddenly fired with the wish to share his favorite sport with her, and to make a convert after the manner of priests, exclaimed, Would you like to come? To be sure I should. Next Tuesday. Yes, next Tuesday. Are you the woman to be ready to start at five in the morning? She exclaimed in horror, No, indeed, that is too much. He was disappointed and chilled, suddenly doubting her true vocation. However, he said, At what hour can you be ready? Well, at nine? Not before? No, not before. Even that is very early. The old fellow hesitated. He certainly would catch nothing, for when the sun has warmed the sea, the fish bite no more. But the two brothers had eagerly pressed the scheme, and organized and arranged everything there and then. So on the following Tuesday the pearl had dropped anchor under the white rocks of Cap-Layève. They had fished till midday, then they had slept a while, and then fished again without catching anything. And then it was that Father Roland, perceiving, rather late, that all that Madame Rosmeille really enjoyed and cared for was the sail on the sea, and seeing that his lines hung motionless, had uttered in a spirit of unreasonable annoyance that vehement chaw, which applied as much to the pathetic widow as to the creatures he could not catch. Now he contemplated the spoil, his fish, with the joyful thrill of a miser, seeing as he looked up at the sky that the sun was getting low. Well, boys, said he, suppose we turn homeward. The young men hauled in their lines, coiled them up, cleaned the hooks, and stuck them into corks, and sat waiting. Roland stood up to look out like a captain. No wind, said he, you will have to pull, youngens. And suddenly, extending one arm to the northward, he exclaimed, here comes the packet from Southampton. Away over the level sea, spread out like a blue sheet, vast and shiny, and shot with flame and gold, an inky cloud was visible against the rosy sky, in the quarter to which he pointed. And below it they could make out the hull of the steamer, which looked tiny at such a distance. And to southward, other wreaths of smoke, numbers of them, could be seen all converging toward the Avra pier. Now scarcely visible as a white streak with the lighthouse, upright like a horn at the end of it. Roland asked, is not the norm indeed due to-day? And Jean replied, yes, to-day. Give me my glass, I fancy I see her out there. The father pulled out the copper tube, adjusted it to his eye, sought the speck, and then, delighted to have seen it, exclaimed, yes, yes, there she is, I know her two funnels. Would you like to look, Madame Rosemille? She took the telescope and directed it towards the Atlantic horizon, without being able, however, to find the vessel, for she could distinguish nothing, nothing but blue, with a colored halo round it, a circular rainbow, and then all manner of queer things, winking eclipses which made her feel sick. She said, as she returned the glass, I never could see with that thing, it used to put my husband in quite a rage, he would stand for hours at the windows, watching the ships pass. Old Roland, much put out, retorted, then it must be some defect in your eye, for my glass is a very good one. Then he offered it to his wife. Would you like to look? No, thank you, I know beforehand that I could not see through it. Madame Roland, a woman of eight and forty, but who did not look at it, seemed to be enjoying this excursion and this waning day more than any of the party. Her chestnut hair was only just beginning to show streaks of white. She had a calm, reasonable face, a kind and happy way with her, which it was a pleasure to see. Her son Pierre was wont to say that she knew the value of money, but this did not hinder her from enjoying the delights of dreaming. She was fond of reading, of novels, and poetry, not for their value as works of art, but for the sake of the tender melancholy mood they would induce in her. A line of poetry, often but a poor one, often a bad one, would touch the little cord, as she expressed it, and give her the sense of some mysterious desire almost realized. And she delighted in these faint emotions which brought a little flutter to her soul, otherwise as strictly kept as a ledger. Since settling at Avre she had become perceptibly stouter, and her figure, which had been very supple and slight, had grown heavier. This day on the sea had been delightful to her. Her husband, without being brutal, was rough with her, as the man who is the despot of his shop is apt to be rough, without anger or hatred. To such men to give an order is to swear. He controlled himself in the presence of strangers, but in private he let loose and gave himself terrible vent, though he was himself afraid of everyone. She in sheer horror of the turmoil, of scenes, of useless explanations, always gave way, and never asked for anything. For a very long time she had not ventured to ask Roland to take her out in the boat. So she had joyfully hailed this opportunity, and was keenly enjoying the rare and new pleasure. From the moment when they started she surrendered herself completely, body and soul, to the soft gliding motion over the waves. She was not thinking. Her mind was not wandering through either memories or hopes. It seemed to her, as though her heart, like her body, was floating on something soft and liquid and delicious, which rocked and lulled it. When their father gave the word to return, Come, take your places at the oars!  Pierre, who was nearest to the two women, took the stroke oar, Jean the other, and they sat waiting till the skipper should say, Give way! For he insisted on everything being done according to strict rule.  They had come out easily, under sail, but the breeze had died away, and the masculine pride of the two brothers was suddenly aroused by the prospect of measuring their powers. When they went out alone with their father, they plied the oars without any steering, for Hollande would be busy getting the lines ready, while he kept a look out in the boat's course, guiding it by a sign or a word.  Or he would say, Now then, number one, come, number two, a little elbow grease! Then the one who had been dreaming pulled harder, the one who had got excited eased down, and the boat's head came round. But today they meant to display their biceps. Jean's arms were hairy, somewhat lean, but sinewy. Jean's were round and white and rosy, and the knot of muscles moved under the skin. At first Pierre had the advantage. With his teeth set, his brow knit, his legs rigid, his hands clenched on the oar, he made it bend from end to end at every stroke, and the pearl was veering landward. Father Hollande, sitting in the boughs, so as to leave the stern seat to the two women, wasted his breath shouting, Easy, number one, pull harder, number two! Pierre pulled harder in his frenzy, and number two could not keep time with his wild stroke.  The two oars were lifted simultaneously, and then by his father's orders Jean pulled alone for a few minutes. But from that moment he had it all his own way. He grew eager and warmed to his work, while Pierre, out of breath and exhausted by his first vigorous spurt, was lax in panting. Four times running, Father Hollande made them stop while the elder took breath, so as to get the boat into her right course again. Then the doctor, humiliated and fuming, his forehead dripping with sweat, his cheeks white, stammered out, I cannot think what has come over me! I have a stitch in my side. I started very well, but it has pulled me up. Jean answered, Shall I pull alone with both oars for a time? No thanks, it will go off. And their mother, somewhat vexed, said, Why, Pierre, what rhyme or reason is there in getting into such a state? You are not a child! And he shrugged his shoulders and set to once more. Jean Rosmy pretended not to see, not to understand, not to hear.  But Father Hollande presently called out, Look! the Prince Albert is catching us up! They all looked round, long and low in the water, with her two raking funnels and two yellow paddle-boxes, like two round cheeks. The Southampton packet came plowing on at full steam, crowded with passengers under open parasols. Its hurrying, noisy paddle-wheels, beating up the water which fell again in foam, gave it an appearance of haste, as of a courier pressed for time, and the upright stem cut through the water, growing up two thin, translucent waves which glided off along the hull. When it had come quite near the pearl, Father Hollande lifted his hat, the ladies shook their handkerchiefs, and half a dozen parasols, eagerly waving on board the steamboat, responded to this salute as she went on her way, leaving behind her a few broad undulations on the still and glassy surface of the sea. There were other vessels, each with its smoky cap, coming in from every part of the horizon towards the short white jetty, which swallowed them up one after another like a mouth. And the fishing-barks and lighter craft, with broad sails and slender masts, stealing across the sky in tow of inconspicuous tugs, were coming in, faster and slower, towards the devouring ogre, which from time to time seemed to have a surfeit, and spewed out to the open sea another fleet of steamers, brigs, schooners, and three masted vessels with their tangled mass of rigging. The hurrying steamships flew off to the right and left over the smooth bosom of the ocean, while sailing vessels, cast off by the pilot tugs which had hauled them out, lay motionless, dressing themselves from the main mast to the four tops in canvas, white or brown, and ruddy in the setting sun. Madame Roland, with her eyes half-shut, murmured, Good heavens, how beautiful the sea is! And Madame Rosemille replied with a long sigh, which, however, had no sadness in it. Yes, but it is sometimes very cruel all the same. Roland exclaimed, Look, there is the Normandy just going in. A big ship, isn't she? Then he described the coast opposite, far, far away, on the other side of the mouth of the Seine. That mouth extended over twenty kilometres, said he. He pointed out Via Vie, Trouvi, Urguet, Luc, Aromanché, the little river of Caen, and the rocks of Calvados, which made the coast unsafe as far as Cherbourg. Then he enlarged on the question of the sand-banks in the Seine, which shift at every tide, so that even the pilots of Kielbef are at fault if they do not survey the channel every day. He bid them notice how the town of Aure divided upper from lower Normandy. In lower Normandy the shore sloped down to the sea in pasturelands, fields, and meadows. The coast of upper Normandy, on the contrary, was steep, a high cliff, ravined, cleft and towering, forming an immense white rampart all the way to Dunkirk, while in each hollow a village or a port lay hidden, Etréan, Fécamp, Saint-Valerie, Trépot, Dieppe, and the rest. The two women did not listen, torpid with comfort, and impressed by the sight of the ocean covered with vessels rushing to and fro like wild beasts about their den. They sat speechless, somewhat awed by the soothing and gorgeous sunset. Roland alone talked on without end. He was one of those whom nothing can disturb. Women, whose nerves are more sensitive, sometimes feel, without knowing why, that the sound of useless speech is as irritating as an insult. Pierre-en-Jean, who had calmed down, were rowing slowly, and the pearl was making for the harbor a tiny thing among those huge vessels. When they came alongside of the quay, Papagry, who was waiting there, gave his hand to the ladies to help them out, and they took the way into the town. A large crowd, the crowd which haunts the pier every day at High Tide, was also drifting homeward. Madame Roland and Madame Rosemarie led the way, followed by the three men. As they went up the roue de Paris, they stopped now and then, in front of a milliner's or a jeweler's shop, to look at a bonnet or an ornament. Then, after making their comments, they went on again. In front of the Place de la Bourse, Roland paused, as he did every day, to gaze at the docks full of vessels, the Bausons du Commerce, with other docks beyond, where the huge hulls lay side by side, closely packed in rows four or five deep, and masts innumerable, along several kilometers of quays, the endless masts, with their yards, poles and rigging, gave this great gap in the heart of the town the look of a dead forest. Above this leafless forest the gulls were wheeling, and watching to pounce like a falling stone on any scraps flung overboard. A sailor-boy, fixing a pulley to a cross-beam, looked as if he had gone up there birds-nesting. Will you dine with us without any sort of ceremony, just that we may end the day together? said Madame Roland to her friend. To be sure, I will, with pleasure. I accept equally without ceremony. It would be dismal to go home and be alone this evening. Pierre, who had heard, and who was beginning to be restless under the young woman's indifference, muttered to himself. Well, the widow is taking root now, it would seem. For some days past he had spoken of her as the widow. The word, harmless in itself, irritated Jean merely by the tone given to it, which to him seemed spiteful and offensive. The three men spoke not another word till they reached the threshold of their house. It was a narrow one, consisting of a ground floor and two floors above, in the Rue Belle Normande. The maid, Josephine, a girl of nineteen, a rustic servant of all work at low wages, gifted to excess with the startled animal expression of a peasant, opened the door, went upstairs at her master's heels to the drawing-room, which was on the first floor, and then said, A gentleman called, three times. Old Roland, who never spoke to her without shouting and swearing, cried out, Who do you say called, in the devil's name? She never winced at her master's roaring voice and replied, A gentleman from the lawyers. What lawyer? Why, M. Canu, who else? And what did this gentleman say? That M. Canu will call in himself in the course of the evening. M. Canu was M. Roland's lawyer, and in a way his friend, managing his business for him. For him to send word that he would call in the evening, something urgent and important must be in the wind. And the four au laus looked at each other, disturbed by the announcement, as folks of small fortune are wont to be at any intervention of a lawyer, with its suggestion of contracts, inheritance, lawsuits, all sorts of desirable or formidable contingencies. The father, after a few moments of silence, muttered, What on earth can it mean? M. Rose Meille began to laugh. Why, a legacy of course. I am sure of it. I bring good luck. But they did not expect the death of anyone who might leave them anything. M. Roland, who had a good memory for relationships, began to think over all their connections on her husband's side and on her own, to trace up pedigrees and the ramifications of cousinship. Before even taking off her bonnet, she said, I say, father. She called her husband father at home, and sometimes M. Roland before strangers. Tell me, do you remember who it was that Joseph Lebrou married for the second time? Yes, a little girl named Du Manille, a stationer's daughter. Had they any children? I should think so, four or five at least. Not from that quarter, then? She was quite eager already in her search. She caught at the hope of some addities dropping from the sky. But Pierre, who was very fond of his mother, who knew her to be somewhat visionary and feared she might be disappointed, a little grieved, a little saddened if the news were bad instead of good, checked her. Do not get excited, mother. There is no rich American uncle. For my part, I should sooner fancy that it is about a marriage for Jean. Everyone was surprised at the suggestion, and Jean was a little ruffled by his brothers having spoken of it before Mme. Rosmey. And why for me, rather than for you? The hypothesis is very disputable. You are the elder. You, therefore, would be the first to be thought of. Besides, I do not wish to marry. Pierre smiled sneeringly. Are you in love, then? And the other, much put out, retorted. Is it necessary that a man should be in love because he does not care to marry yet? Ah, there you are! That yet sets it right. You are waiting! Granted that I am waiting, if you will have it so. But old Roland, who had been listening and cogitating, suddenly hit upon the most probable solution. Bless me! What fools we are to be racking our brains! Maitre Lucanou is our very good friend. He knows that Pierre is looking out for a medical partnership, then Jean for a lawyer's office, and he has found something to suit one of you. This was so obvious and likely that everyone accepted it. "'Dinner is ready,' said the maid, and they all hurried off to their rooms to wash their hands before sitting down to table. Ten minutes later they were at dinner in the little dining-room on the ground floor. At first they were silent, but presently Roland began again in amazement at this lawyer's visit. "'For after all, why did he not write? Why should he have sent his clerk three times? Why is he coming himself?' Pierre thought it quite natural. An immediate decision is required, no doubt, and perhaps there are certain confidential conditions which it does not do to put into writing. Still they were all puzzled, and all four are a little annoyed at having invited a stranger who would be in the way of their discussing and deciding on what should be done. They had just gone upstairs again when the lawyer was announced. Roland flew to meet him. "'Good evening, my dear maître,' said he, giving his visitor the title which in France is the official prefix to the name of every lawyer. "'Madame Rose-Mille Rose.' "'I am going,' she said. "'I am very tired.' A faint attempt was made to detain her, but she would not consent, and went home without either of the three men offering to escort her, as they always had done. Madame Volant did the honours eagerly to their visitor. "'A cup of coffee, monsieur?' "'No, thank you. I have just had dinner. "'A cup of tea, then?' "'Thank you. I will accept one later. First we must attend to business.'  The lawyer went on. "'Did you, in Paris, know a certain Monsieur Marachal?' "'Léon Marachal?' "'Monsieur and Madame Volant both exclaimed at once, "'I should think so. "'He was a friend of yours?' Volant replied, "'Our best friend, monsieur, but a fanatic for Paris. "'Never to be got away from the boulevard. "'He was a head clerk in the Exchequer office. "'I have never seen him since I left the capital, and laterly we have ceased writing to each other. "'When people are far apart, you know,' the lawyer gravely put in. "'Monsieur Marachal is deceased.' Both man and wife responded with a little movement of pain surprise, genuine or false, but always ready, with which such news is received. Maître Lucanou went on. "'My colleague in Paris has just communicated to me the main item of his will, by which he makes your son, Jean, Monsieur Jean Volant, his sole legatee.' They were all too much amazed to utter a single word. Madame Volant was the first to control her emotion, and stammered out, "'Good heavens, poor Léon, our poor friend. "'Dear me, dear me, dead.'" The tears started to her eyes. A woman's silent tears drops of grief from her very soul, which trickled down her cheeks and seemed so very sad, being so clear. But Volant was thinking less of the loss than the prospect announced. Still, he dared not at once inquire into the clauses of the will and the amount of the fortune, so to work round to these interesting facts, he asked, "'And what did he die of, poor Maréchal?' Maître Lucanou did not know in the least. "'All I know is,' said he, that dying without any direct heirs, he has left the whole of his fortune, about twenty thousand francs a year, in three percents, to your second son, whom he has known from his birth up, and judges worthy of the legacy. If Monsieur Jean should refuse the money, it is to go to the foundling hospitals. Old Volant could not conceal his delight, and exclaimed, "'Sacresti, it is the thought of a kind heart. And if I had had no air, I would not have forgotten him. He was a true friend.' The lawyer smiled. "'I was very glad,' he said, to announce the event to you myself. It is always a pleasure to be the bearer of good news.' It had not struck him that this good news was that of the death of a friend, of Volant's best friend, and the old man himself had suddenly forgotten the intimacy he had but just spoken of with so much conviction. Only Madame Volant and her sons still looked mournful. She indeed was still shedding a few tears, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief, which she then pressed to her lips to smother her deep sobs. The doctor murmured, "'He was a good fellow, very affectionate. He often invited us to dine with him, my brother and me.' Jean, with wide-open, glittering eyes, laid his hand on his handsome fair beard, a familiar gesture with him, and drew his fingers down to the tip of his last hairs, as if to pull it longer and thinner. Twice his lips parted to utter some decent remark, but after long meditation he could only say this. "'Yes, he was certainly fond of me. He would always embrace me when I went to see him.' But his father's thoughts had set off at a gallop, galloping round this inheritance to come, nay, already in hand, this money lurking behind the door, which would walk in quite soon, to-morrow, at a word of consent. "'And there is no possible difficulty in the way,' he asked, "'no lawsuit, no one to dispute it?' Maître Lecanou seemed quite easy. "'No, my Paris correspondent states that everything is quite clear. Monsieur Jean has only to sign his acceptance.' "'Good! Then the fortune is quite clear?' "'Perfectly clear. All the necessary formalities have been gone through? All!' Suddenly the old jeweler had an impulse of shame, obscure, instinctive, and fleeting, shame of his eagerness to be informed, and he added, "'You understand that I ask all these questions immediately, so as to save my son unpleasant consequences which he might not foresee. Sometimes there are debts, embarrassing liabilities, what not? An allegatee finds himself in an inextricable thorn-bush. After all, I am not the heir, but I think first of the little one.' They were accustomed to speak of Jean among themselves as the little one, though he was much bigger than Pierre. Suddenly Madame Voulant seemed to wake from a dream, to recall some remote fact, a thing almost forgotten that she had heard long ago, and of which she was not altogether sure. She inquired doubtingly, "'Were you not saying that our poor friend Maréchal had left his fortune to my little Jean?' "'Yes, Madame.' And she went on simply. "'I am much pleased to hear it. It proves that he was attached to us.' Voulant had risen. "'And would you wish, my dear sir, that my son should at once sign his acceptance?' "'No, no, Monsieur Voulant. Tomorrow, at my office, tomorrow, at two o'clock, if that suits you.' "'Yes, to be sure. Yes, indeed. I should think so.'  The maid, on being summoned, brought in first some dry biscuits and deep tin boxes, those crisp insipid English cakes which seem to have been made for a parrot's beak, and soldered into metal cases for a voyage round the world. Next she fetched some little grey linen doilies, folded square, those teen-apkins which in thrifty families never get washed. A third time she came in with the sugar basin and cups. Then she departed to heat the water. They sat waiting. No one could talk. They had too much to think about, and nothing to say. Madame Voulant alone attempted a few commonplace remarks. She gave an account of the fishing excursion, and sang the praises of the pearl, and of Madame Rosméie. "'Charming! Charming!' the lawyer said again and again. Voulant, leaning against the marble mantle-shelf, as if it were winter, and the fire burning, with his hands in his pockets and his lips puckered for a whistle, could not keep still, tortured by the invincible desire to give vent to his delight. The two brothers, in two armchairs that matched, one on each side of the centre-table, stared in front of them in similar attitudes of dissimilar expressions. At last the tea appeared. The lawyer took a cup, sugared it, and drank it, after having crumbled into it a little cake which was too hard to crunch. Then he rose, shook hands, and departed. Then it is understood, repeated Voulant, "'Tomorrow at your place, at two?' "'Quite so, tomorrow at two!' Jean had not spoken a word. When their guest had gone, silence fell again, till Father Voulant clapped his two hands on his younger son's shoulders, crying, "'Well, you devilish, lucky dog! You don't embrace me!' Then Jean smiled. He embraced his father, saying, "'It had not struck me as indispensable.' The old man was beside himself with glee. He walked about the room, strummed on the furniture with his clumsy nails, turned about on his heels, and kept saying, "'What luck! What luck! Now that is really what I call luck!' Pierre asked. "'Then you used to know this Marshal well?' And his father replied. "'I believe. Why, he used to spend every evening at our house. Surely you remember, he used to fetch you from school on half-holidays, and often took you back again after dinner. Why, the very day when Jean was born, it was he who went for the doctor.  Of course we knew at once what it meant, and he set off post-haste. In his hurry he took my hat instead of his own. I remember that because we had a good laugh over it afterward. It is very likely that he may have thought of that when he was dying, and as he had no air he may have said to himself, "'I remember helping to bring that youngster into the world, so I will leave him my savings.'" Madame Roland, sunk in a deep chair, seemed lost in reminiscences once more. She murmured, as though she were thinking aloud. "'Ah, he was a good friend, very devoted, very faithful, a rare soul in these days!' Jean got up. "'I shall go out for a little walk,' he said. His father was surprised and tried to keep him. They had much to talk about, plans to be made, decisions to be formed. But the young man insisted, declaring that he had an engagement. Besides, there would be time enough for settling everything before he came into possession of his inheritance. So he went away, for he wished to be alone to reflect. Pierre, on his part, said that he too was going out, and after a few minutes followed his brother. As soon as he was alone with his wife, Father Roland took her in his arms, kissed her a dozen times on each cheek, and, replying to her reproach, she had often brought against him, said, "'You see, my dearest, that it would have been no good to stay any longer in Paris and work for the children till I dropped, instead of coming here to recruit my health, since fortune drops on us from the skies.' She was quite serious. "'It drops from the skies on Jean,' she said. But Pierre?' Pierre? But he is a doctor. He will make plenty of money. Besides, his brother will surely do something for him.' No, he would not take it. Besides, this legacy is for Jean, only for Jean. Pierre will find himself at a great disadvantage.' The old fellow seemed perplexed. "'Well, then, we will leave him rather more in our will.' No, that again would not be quite just. "'Drat it all,' he exclaimed. "'What do you want me to do in the matter? You always hit on a whole heap of disagreeable ideas. You must spoil all my pleasures. Well, I am going to bed. Good night. All the same. I call it good luck. Jolly good luck.' And he went off, delighted in spite of everything, and without a word of regret for the friend so generous in his death. Madame Roland sat thinking again in front of the lamp, which was burning out. End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Of Pierre and Jean by Guy de Maupassant Translated by Clara Bell This Librebox recording is in the public domain. As soon as he got out, Pierre made his way to the Rue de Paris, the high street of Avre, brightly lit up, lively and noisy. The rather sharp air of the sea-coast kissed his face, and he walked slowly, his stick under his arm, and his hands behind his back. He was ill at ease, oppressed, out of heart, as one is after hearing unpleasant tidings. He was not distressed by any definite thought, and he would have been puzzled to account, on the spur of the moment, for this dejection of spirit and heaviness of limb. He was hurt somewhere, without knowing where. Somewhere within him there was a pinpoint of pain, one of those almost imperceptible wounds which we cannot lay a finger on, but which incomode us, tire us, depress us, irritate us, a slight and occult pang, as it were, a small seat of distress. When he reached the square in front of the theatre, he was attracted by the lights of the café Tortony, and slowly bent his steps to the Dazzling façade. But just as he was going in, he reflected that he would meet friends there and acquaintances, people he would be obliged to talk to, and fierce repugnance surged up in him for this commonplace good fellowship over coffee-cups and liqueur-glasses. So, retracing his steps, he went back to the high street, leading to the harbour. Where shall I go? he asked himself, trying to think of a spot he liked, which would agree with his frame of mind. He could not think of one, for being alone made him feel fractious, yet he could not bear to meet any one. As he came out on the grand quay, he hesitated once more. Then he turned towards the pier. He had chosen solitude. Going close by a bench on the breakwater, he sat down, tired already of walking, and out of humour with his stroll before he had taken it. He said to himself, What is the matter with me this evening? And he began to search in his memory for what vexation had crossed him, as we question a sick man to discover the cause of his fever. His mind was at once irritable and sober. He got excited, then he reasoned, approving or blaming his impulses. But in time primitive nature at last proved the stronger. The sensitive man always had the upper hand over the intellectual man. So he tried to discover what had induced this irascible mood, this craving to be moving without wanting anything, this desire to meet someone for the sake of differing from him, and at the same time this aversion for the people he might see, and the things they might say to him. And then he put the question to himself. Can it be Jean's inheritance? Yes, it was certainly possible. When the lawyer had announced the news, he had felt his heart beat a little faster. For, indeed, one is not always master of oneself. There are sudden and pertenacious emotions against which a man struggles in vain. He fell into meditation on the physiological problem of the impression produced on the instinctive element in man. And giving rise to a current of painful or pleasurable sensations diametrically opposed to those which the thinking man desires, aims at, and regards as right and wholesome, when he has risen superior to himself by the cultivation of his intellect. He tried to picture to himself the frame of mind of a son who had inherited a vast fortune, and who, thanks to that wealth, may now know many long-wished four delights which the avarice of his father had prohibited, a father, nevertheless, beloved and regretted. He got up and walked on to the end of the pier. He felt better and glad to have understood, to have detected himself, to have unmasked the other which lurks in us. Then I was jealous of Jean, thought he. That is really vilely mean. Am I sure of it now, for the first idea which came into my head was that he would marry Madame Rosemey? And yet I am not in love myself with that priggish little goose, who is just the woman to disgust a man with good sense and good conduct. So it is the most gratuitous jealousy, the very essence of jealousy, which is merely because it is. I must keep an eye on that. By this time he was in front of the flagstaff, whence the depth of the water in the harbour is signalled, and he struck a match to read the list of vessels signalled in the roadstead and coming in with the next high tide. Ships were due from Brazil, from La Plata, from Chile, and Japan. Two Danish Briggs, a Norwegian schooner, and a Turkish steamship, which startled Pierre as much as if it had read a Swiss steamship. And in a whimsical vision he pictured a great vessel crowded with men in turbans climbing the shrouds in loose trousers. How absurd, he thought, but the Turks are a maritime people too. A few steps further on he stopped again, looking out at the roads. On the right, above St. Adrasa, the two electric lights of Kaplaev, like monstrous twin cyclops, shot their long and powerful beams across the sea. Starting from two neighbouring centres, the two parallel shafts of light, like the colossal tails of two comets, fell in a straight and endless slope from the top of the cliff to the uttermost horizon. Then, on the two piers, two more lights, the children of these giants, marked the entrance to the harbour, and far away on the other side of the sand, others were in sight, many others, steady or winking, flashing or revolving, opening and shutting like eyes, the eyes of the ports, yellow, red and green, watching the night-wrapped sea covered with ships, the living eyes of the hospitable shore saying, merely by the mechanical and regular movement of their eyelids, I am here, I am trouvier, I am au fleur, I am the Andemire River. And high above all the rest, so high that from this distance, it might be taken for a planet, the airy lighthouse of Etuvier showed the way to Rouen, across the sand banks at the mouth of the Great River. Out on the deep water, the limitless water, darker than the sky, stars seemed to have fallen here and there. They twinkled in the night haze, small, close to shore or far away, white, red and green too. Most of them were motionless, some, however, seemed to be scutting onward. These were the lights of the ships at anchor or moving about in search of moorings. Just at this moment, the moon rose behind the town, and it too looked like some huge, divine pharaohs lighting up in the heavens to guide the countless fleet of stars in the sky. Pierre murmured, almost speaking aloud, Look at that! And we let our bile rise for two pence. On a sudden, close to him, in the wide, dark ditch between the two peers, a shadow stole up, a large shadow of fantastic shape. Leaning over the granite parapet, he saw that a fishing boat had glided in, without the sound of a voice or the splash of a ripple, or the plunge of an oar, softly borne in by its broad, tawny sails spread to the breeze from the open sea. He thought to himself, if one could but live on board that boat, what peace it would be! Perhaps! And then again, a few steps beyond, he saw a man sitting at the very end of the breakwater, a dreamer, a lover, a sage, a happy or a desperate man. Who was it? He went forward, curious to see the face of this lonely individual, and he recognized his brother. What? Is it you, Jean? Pierre, you! What has brought you here? I came to get some fresh air, and you? Jean began to laugh. I too came out for fresh air. And Pierre sat down by his brother's side. Lovely, isn't it? Oh, yes, lovely! He understood from the tone of voice that Jean had not looked at anything. He went on. For my part, when I come here, I am seized with a wild desire to be off with all those boats to the north or the south, only to think that all those little sparks out there have just come from the uttermost ends of the earth, from the lands of great flowers and beautiful olive or copper-colored girls, the lands of hummingbirds, of elephants, of roaming lions, of negro kings, from all the lands which are like fairy tales to us who no longer believe in the white cat or the sleeping beauty. It would be awfully jolly to be able to treat oneself to an excursion out there, but then it would cost a great deal of money. No end. He broke off abruptly, remembering that his brother had that money now, and released from care, released from laboring for his daily bread. Free, unfettered, happy, and light-hearted, he might go whither he listed to find the fair-haired Swedes or the brown damsels of Havana. And then one of those involuntary flashes which were common with him so sudden and swift that he could neither anticipate them nor stop them, nor qualify them, communicated, as it seemed to him, from some second independent and violent soul shot through his brain. Bah! He is too great a simpleton. He will marry that little rose me. He was standing up now. I will leave you to dream of the future. I want to be moving. He grasped his brother's hand and added in a heavy tone. Well, my dear old boy, you are a rich man. I am very glad to have come upon you this evening to tell you how pleased I am about it, how truly I congratulate you and how much I care for you. Jean, tender and soft-hearted, was deeply touched. Thank you, my good brother.  Back in the town again he once more wondered what he should do, being disappointed of his walk and deprived of the company of the sea by his brother's presence. He had an inspiration. I will go and take a glass of liqueur with Old Morosco, and he went off towards the quarter of the town known as Anguville. He had known Old Morosco, La Père Morosco, he called him, in the hospitals in Paris. He was a pole, an old refugee, it was said, who had gone through terrible things out there, and who had come to ply his calling as a chemist and drugist in France after passing a fresh examination. Nothing was known of his early life, and all sorts of legends had been current among the indoor and outdoor patients and afterward among his neighbors. This reputation as a terrible conspirator, a nihilist, a regicide, a patriot ready for anything and everything, who had escaped death by a miracle, had bewitched Pierre Hollande's lively and bold imagination. He had made friends with the old pole, without, however, having ever extracted from him any revelation as to his former career. It was owing to the young doctor that this worthy had come to settle at Avre, counting on the large custom which the rising practitioner would secure him. Meanwhile, he lived very poorly in his little shop, selling medicines to the small tradesmen and workmen in his part of the town. Pierre often went to see him and chat with him for an hour after dinner, for he liked Moroscoe's calm look and rare speech, and attributed great depth to his long spells of silence. A simple gas burner was a light over the counter crowded with files. Those in the window were not lighted, from motives of economy.  He woke at the sound of the shop bell and, recognizing the doctor, came forward to meet him, holding out both hands. His black frock coat, streaked with stains of acids and syrups, was much too wide for his lean little person, and looked like a shabby old cassock, and the man spoke with a strong Polish accent which gave the childlike character to his thin voice, the lisping note and intonations of a young thing learning to speak. Pierre sat down and Moroscoe asked him, What news, dear doctor? None, everything is usual, everywhere.  I am often not gay. Come, come, you must shake that off. Will you try a glass of liqueur? Yes, I do not mind. Then I will give you something new to try. For these two months, I have been trying to extract something from currents, of which only a syrup has been made hitherto. Well, and I have done it. I have invented a very good liqueur. Very good indeed. Very good.  He moved and did everything in jerky gestures, always incomplete. He never quite stretched out his arm, nor quite put out his legs, nor made any broad and definite movements. His ideas seemed to be like actions. He suggested them, promised them, sketched them, hinted at them, but never fully uttered them. And indeed his great end in life seemed to be the concoction of syrups and liqueurs. A good syrup or a good liqueur is enough to make a fortune, he would often say. He had compounded hundreds of these sweet mixtures without ever succeeding in floating one of them. Pierre declared that Morosco always reminded him of Marat. Two little glasses were fetched out of the back shop and placed on the mixing board. Then the two men scrutinized the color of the fluid by holding it up to the gas. A fine ruby, Pierre declared. Isn't it? Morosco's old parrot face beamed with satisfaction. The doctor tasted, smacked his lips, meditated, tasted again, meditated again, and spoke. Very good! Capital! And quite new in flavor. It is a find, my dear fellow. Ah, really! Well, I am very glad! Then Morosco took counsel as to baptizing the new liqueur. He wanted to call it extract of currents, or else find Groselle. Or Grosellia. Or Groselline. Pierre did not approve of either of these names. Then the old man had an idea. What you said just now would be very good. Very good! Fine ruby! But the doctor disputed the merit of this name, though it had originated with him. He recommended simply Groselle, which Morosco thought admirable. Then they were silent, and sat for some minutes without a word under the solitary gas lamp. At last Pierre began, almost in spite of himself. A queer thing has happened at home this evening. A friend of my father's, who is lately dead, has left his fortune to my brother. The druggist did not at first seem to understand, but after thinking it over, he hoped that the doctor had half the inheritance. When the matter was clearly explained to him, he appeared surprised and vexed. And to express his dissatisfaction at finding that his young friend had been sacrificed, he said several times over, It will not look well. Pierre, who was relapsing into nervous irritation, wanted to know what Morosco meant by this phrase. Why would it not look well? What was there to look badly in the fact that his brother had come into the money of a friend of the family? But the cautious old man would not explain further. In such a case the money is left equally to the two brothers, and I tell you, it will not look well. And the doctor, out of all patience, went away, returned to his father's house, and went to bed. For some time afterward he heard Jean moving softly about the adjoining room, and then, after drinking two glasses of water, he fell asleep. The doctor awoke next morning, firmly resolved to make his fortune. Several times already he had come to the same determination without following up the reality. At the outset of all his trials of some new career, the hopes of rapidly acquiring riches kept up his efforts in confidence, till the first obstacle, the first check, threw him into a fresh path. Snug in bed between the warm sheets he lay meditating. How many medical men had become wealthy in quite a short time? All that was needed was a little knowledge of the world, for in the course of his studies he had learned to estimate the most famous physicians, and he judged them all to be asses. He was certainly as good as they, if not better. If by any means he could secure a practice among the wealth and fashion of Avre, he could easily make a hundred thousand francs a year, and he calculated with great exactitude what his certain profits must be. He would go out in the morning to visit his patients, at the very moderate average of ten a day. At twenty francs each that would mount up to seventy two thousand francs a year, at least, or even seventy five thousand, for ten patients was certainly below the mark. In the afternoon he would be at home to, say, another ten patients at ten francs each, thirty-six thousand francs. Here then, in round numbers, was an income of twenty thousand francs. Old patients, old friends whom he could charge only ten francs for a visit, or see at home for five, would perhaps make a slight reduction on this sum total, but consultations with other physicians and various incidental fees would make up for that. Nothing could be easier than to achieve this by skillful advertising remarks in the Figaro, to the effect that the scientific faculty of Paris had their eye on him, and were interested in the cures effected by the modest young practitioner of Avre. And he would be richer than his brother, richer and more famous, and satisfied with himself, for he would owe his fortune solely to his own exertions, and liberal to his old parents, who would be justly proud of his fame. He would not marry, would not burden his life with a wife who would be in his way, but he would choose his mistress from the most beautiful of his patients. He felt so sure of his success that he sprang out of bed as though to grasp it on the spot, and he dressed to go and search through the town for rooms to suit him. Then, as he wandered about the streets, he reflected how slight are the causes which determine our actions. Any time these three weeks he might and ought to have come to this decision, which, beyond a doubt, the news of his brother's inheritance had abruptly given rise to. He stopped before every door where a placard proclaimed that fine apartments, or handsome rooms, were to be let. Announcements without an adjective he turned from with scorn. Then he inspected them with a lofty air, measuring the height of the rooms, sketching the plan in his notebook, with the passages, the arrangement of the exits, explaining that he was a medical man and had many visitors. He must have a broad and well-kept staircase, nor could he be any higher up than the first floor. After having written down seven or eight addresses, and scribbled two hundred notes, he got home to breakfast a quarter of an hour too late. In the hall he heard the clatter of plates. Then they had begun without him. Why? They were never want to be so punctual. He was nettle'd and put out, for he was somewhat thin-skinned. As he went in, Volant said to him, Come, Pierre, make haste, double-take you. You know we have to be at the lawyers at two o'clock. This is not the day to be dawdling. Pierre sat down without replying, after kissing his mother and shaking hands with his father and brother, and he helped himself from the deep dish in the middle of the table to the cutlet which had been kept for him. It was cold and dry, probably the least tempting of them all. He thought that they might have left it on the hot plate till he came in, and not lose their heads so completely as to have forgotten their other son, their eldest. The conversation which his entrance had interrupted was taken up again at the point where it had ceased. In your place, Madame Roland was saying to Jean, I will tell you what I should do at once. I should settle in handsome rooms so as to attract attention. I should ride on horseback and select one or two interesting cases to defend and make a mark in court. I would be a sort of amateur lawyer and very select. Thank God you are out of all danger of want, and if you pursue a profession, it is, after all, only that you may not lose the benefit of your studies, and because a man ought never to sit idle. Old Volant, who was peeling a pear, exclaimed, Christy, in your place I should buy a nice yacht, a cutter, on the build of our pilot boats. I would sail as far as Senegal in such a boat as that. Pierre, in his turn, spoke his views. After all, said he, it was not his wealth which made the moral worth, the intellectual worth of a man. To a man of inferior mind it was only a means of degradation. While in the hands of a strong man it was a powerful lever. They, to be sure, were rare. If Jean were a really superior man, now that he could never want he might prove it. But then he must work a hundred times harder than he would have done in other circumstances. His business now must be not to argue for or against the widow and the orphan, and pocket his fees for every case he gained, but to become a really eminent legal authority, a luminary of the law. And he added in conclusion, If I were rich, wouldn't I dissect no end of bodies? Father Roland shrugged his shoulders. That is all very fine, he said, but the wisest way of life is to take it easy. We are not beasts of burden, but men. If you are born poor, you must work. Well, so much the worse, and you do work. But where you have dividends, you must be a flat if you grind yourself to death. Pierre replied haughtily, Our notions differ. For my part I respect nothing on earth, but learning and intellect. Everything else is beneath contempt. Madame Roland always tried to deaden the constant shocks between father and son. She turned the conversation, and began talking of a murder committed the week before at Bourbain-Nwanto. Their minds were immediately full of circumstances under which the crime had been committed, and absorbed by the interesting horror, the attractive mystery of crime, which, however commonplace, shameful and disgusting, exercises a strange and universal fascination over the curiosity of mankind. Now and again, however, Old Volant looked at his watch. Come, he said, it's time to be going. Pierre sneered. It is not yet one o'clock, he said. It really was hardly worthwhile to condemn me to eat a cold cutlet. Are you coming to the lawyers? His mother asked. I? No. What for? he replied dryly. My presence is quite unnecessary. Jean sat silent, as though he had no concern in the matter. When they were discussing the murder at Bourbain, he, as a legal authority, had put forward some opinions and uttered some reflections on crime and criminals. Now he spoke no more, but the sparkle in his eye, the bright colour in his cheeks, the very gloss of his beard, seemed to proclaim his happiness. When the family had gone, Pierre, alone once more, resumed his investigations in the apartments to Let. After two or three hours spent in going up and down stairs, he had last found, in the Boulevard François, a pretty set of rooms, a spacious eau de trissol, with two doors on two different streets, two drawing rooms, a glass corridor, where his patients, while they waited, might walk among flowers, and a delightful dining room, with a bow window looking out over the sea. When it came to taking it, the terms, three thousand francs, pulled him up. The first quarter must be paid in advance, and he had nothing, not a penny, to call his own. The little fortune his father had saved brought him in about eight thousand francs a year, and Pierre had often blamed himself for having placed his parents in difficulties by his long delay in deciding on a profession, by forfeiting his attempts and beginning fresh courses of study. So he went away, promising to send his answer within two days, and it occurred to him to ask Jean to lend him the amount of this quarter's rent, or even of a half year, fifteen hundred francs, as soon as Jean could have come into possession. It will be a loan for a few months at most, he thought. I shall repay him, very likely before the end of the year. It is a simple matter, and he will be glad to do so much for me. As it was not yet four o'clock, and he had nothing to do, absolutely nothing, he went to sit in the public gardens, and he remained a long time on a bench, without an idea in his brain, his eyes fixed on the ground, crushed by weariness amounting to distress. And yet this was how he had been living all these days since his return home, without suffering so acutely from the vacuity of his existence and from inaction. How had he spent his time from rising in the morning till bedtime? He had loathed on the pier at high tide, loathed in the streets, loathed in the cafes, loathed at morowskos, loathed everywhere, and on a sudden this life which he had endured till now had become odious, intolerable. If he had any pocket money he would have taken a carriage for a long drive in the country, along by the farm-ditches shaded by beach and elm trees. But he had to think twice of the cost of a glass of beer or a postage stamp, and such an indulgence was out of his ken. It suddenly struck him how hard it was for a man of past thirty to be reduced to ask his mother with a blush for a twenty-frank piece every now and then, and he muttered as he scored the gravel with the ferrule of his stick. Creasty, if I only had money! And again the thought of his brother's legacy came into his head like the sting of a wasp, but he drove it out indignantly, not choosing to allow himself to slip down that descent to jealousy. Some children were playing about in the dusty paths. They were fair little things with long hair, and they were making little mounds of sand with the greatest gravity and careful attention, to crush them at once by stamping on them. It was one of those gloomy days with Pierre, when we pry into every corner of our souls and shake out every crease. All our endeavors are like the labours of those babies, thought he, and then he wondered whether the wisest thing in life were not to beget two or three of these little creatures and watch them grow up with complacent curiosity. A longing for marriage breathed on his soul. A man is not so lost when he is not alone. At any rate he has someone stirring at his side in hours of trouble or of uncertainty, and it is something only to be able to speak unequal terms to a woman when one is suffering. Then he began thinking of women. He knew very little of them, never having had any but very transient connections as a medical student, broken off as soon as the month's allowance was spent, and renewed or replaced by another the following month. And yet there must be some very kind, gentle, and comforting creatures among them. Had not his mother been the good sense and saving grace of his own home? How glad he would be to know a woman, a true woman! He started up with a sudden determination to go and call on Madame Rosmy, but he promptly sat down again. He did not like that woman. Why not? She had too much vulgar and sorted common sense. Besides, did she not seem to prefer Jean? Without confessing it to himself too bluntly, this preference had a great deal to do with his low opinion of the widow's intellect. For, though he loved his brother, he could not help thinking him somewhat mediocre in believing himself the superior. However, he was not going to sit there till nightfall, and as he had done on the previous evening he anxiously asked himself, What am I going to do? At this moment he felt in his soul the need of a melting mood, of being embraced and comforted. Comforted? For what? He could not have put it into words, but he was in one of these hours of weakness and exhaustion, when a woman's presence, a woman's kiss, the touch of a hand, the rustle of a petticoat, a soft look out of black or blue eyes, seemed the one thing needful, there and then to our heart. And the memory flashed upon him of a little bar made at a beer-house, whom he had walked home with one evening, and seen again from time to time. So once more he rose to go and drink a bock with the girl. What should he say to her? What would she say to him? Nothing, probably. But what did that matter? He would hold her hand for a few seconds. She seemed to have a fancy for him. Why then did he not go to see her oftener? He found her dozing on a chair in the beer-shop, which was almost deserted. Three men were drinking and smoking with their elbows on the oak tables. The bookkeeper in her desk was reading a novel, while the master, in his shirt sleeves, lay sound asleep on a bench. As soon as she saw him, the girl rose eagerly, and coming to meet him said, Good day, Monsieur. How are you? Pretty well, and you? I? Oh, very well. How scarce you make yourself. Yes, I have very little time to myself. I am a doctor, you know. Indeed, you never told me. If I had known that, I was out of sorts last week, and I would have sent for you. What would you take? A box, and you? I will have a box, too, since you are willing to treat me. She had addressed him with a familiar two, and continued to use it, as if the offer of a drink had tacitly conveyed permission. Then, sitting down opposite each other, they talked for a while. Every now and then she took his hand with the light familiarity of girls whose kisses are for sale, and looking at him with inviting eyes, she said, Why don't you come here oftener? I like you very much, sweetheart. He was already disgusted with her.  A woman, he told himself, should appear to us in dreams, or such a glory as may poeticize her vulgarity. Next she asked him, You went by the other morning with a handsome, fair man wearing a big beard. Is he your brother? Yes, he is my brother. Awfully good-looking! Do you think so?  What strange craving impelled him, on a sudden, to tell this tavern wench about Jean's legacy. Why should this thing, which he kept at arm's length when he was alone, which he drove from him for fear of the torment it brought upon his soul, rise to his lips at this moment? And why did he allow it to overflow them, as if he needed once more to empty out his heart to someone, gorged as it was with bitterness? He crossed his legs and said, He has wonderful luck, that brother of mine. He has just come into a legacy of twenty thousand francs a year. She opened those covetous blue eyes of hers very wide. Oh, and who left him that, his grandmother or his aunt? No, an old friend of my parents. Only a friend? Impossible!  No, I knew him very slightly. She sat thinking some minutes, then, with an odd smile on her lips, she said, Well, he is a lucky dog, that brother of yours, to have friends of this pattern.  He longed to slap her, without knowing why, and he asked with pinched lips, And what do you mean by saying that? She had put on a stolid innocent face. Oh, nothing! I mean he has better luck than you! He tossed a frank piece on the table, and went out.  What had her thought been? What had been her meaning under those words? There was certainly some malice, some spite, something shameful in it. Yes, that hussy must have fancied, no doubt, that Jean was Marachal's son. The agitation which came over him at the notion of the suspicion cast at his mother was so violent that he stood still, looking about him for some place where he might sit down. In front of him was another cafe. He went in, took a chair, and as the waiter came up, a bark, he said. He felt his heart beating, his skin was goose flesh, and then the recollection flashed upon him of what Morosco had said the evening before. It will not look well. Had he had the same thought, the same suspicion as this baggage? Hanging his head over the glass, he watched the white froth as the bubbles rose and burst, asking himself, Is it possible that such a thing should be believed? But the reasons which might give rise to this horrible doubt in other men's minds now struck him, one after another, as plain, obvious, and exasperating, that a childless old bachelor should leave his fortune to a friend's two sons was the most simple and natural thing in the world, but that he should leave the whole of it to one alone. Of course people would wonder, and whisper, and end by smiling. How was it that he had not foreseen this, that his father had not felt it? How was it that his mother had not guessed it? No, they had been too delighted at this unhopeful wealth for the idea to come near them. And besides, how should these worthy souls have ever dreamed of anything so ignominious? But the public, their neighbors, the shopkeepers, their own tradesmen, all who knew them, would not they repeat the abominable thing, laugh at it, enjoy it, make game of his father and despise his mother? And the barmaids remarked that Jean was fair, and he dark, that they were not in the least alike in face, manner, figure, or intelligence, would now strike every eye and every mind. When anyone spoke of Roland's son, the question would be, which, the real or the false? He rose firmly resolved to warn Jean, and put him on his guard against the frightful danger which threatened their mother's honour. But what could Jean do? The simplest thing, no doubt, would be to refuse the inheritance, which would then go to the poor, and to tell all friends or acquaintances who had heard of the bequest, that the will contained clauses and conditions impossible to subscribe to, which would have made Jean not inheritor, but merely a trustee. As he made his way home, he was thinking that he must see his brother alone, so as not to speak of such a matter in the presence of his parents. On reaching the door he heard a great noise of voices and laughter in the drawing-room, and when he went in he found Captain Bossier and Madame Rosmeille, whom his father had brought home and engaged to dine with them in honour of the good news. Vermouth and Absinthe had been served to wet their appetites, and every one had been at once put into good spirits. Captain Bossier, a funny little man who had become quite round by dint of being rolled about at sea, and whose ideas also seemed to have been worn round, like the pebbles of a beach, while he laughed with his throat full of ours, looked upon life as a capital thing, in which everything that might turn up was good to take. He clinked his glass against Father Roland's, while Jean was offering two freshly-filled glasses to the ladies. Madame Rosmeille refused, till Captain Bossier, who had known her husband, cried, Come, come, Madame, bis repétite place, as we say in the lingo, which is as much as to say two glasses of Vermouth never hurt anyone. Look at me! Since I have left the sea, in this way I give myself an artificial roller to every day before dinner. I add a little pitching after my coffee, and that keeps things lively for the rest of the evening. I never rise to a hurricane, mind you, never, never. I am too much afraid of damage. Nolà, whose nautical mania was humoured by the old mariner, laughed heartily, his face flushed already, and his eye watery from the Absinthe. He had a burly shopkeeping stomach, nothing but stomach, in which the rest of his body seemed to have got stowed away, the flabby paunch of men who spend their lives sitting, and who have neither thighs nor chest nor arms nor neck, the seat of their chairs having accumulated all their substance in one spot. Bossier, on the contrary, though short and stout, was as tight as an egg and as hard as a cannon-ball. Madame Volant had not emptied her glass, and was gazing at her Saint-Jean with sparkling eyes. Happiness had brought a colour to her cheeks. In him, too, the fullness of joy had now blazed out. It was a settled thing, signed and sealed. He had twenty thousand francs a year, in the sound of his laugh, in the fuller voice with which he spoke, in his way of looking at others, his more positive manners, his greater confidence, the assurance given by money, was at once perceptible. Dinner was announced, and as the old man was about to offer his arm to Madame Rosmeille, his wife exclaimed, No, no, Father, everything is for Jean today. Unwanted luxury graced the table.  The second, a monumental cake, gorged with whipped cream, and covered with pinnacles of sugar, a cathedral in confectionery. The third, slices of pineapple, floating in clear syrup. And the fourth, unheard of lavishness, black grapes brought from the warmer south. The devil, exclaimed Pierre as he sat down, we are celebrating the accession of Jean, the rich. After the soup, Madera was passed round, and already everyone was talking at once. Boussière was giving the history of a dinner he had eaten at San Domingo at the table of a negro general. Old Roland was listening, and at the same time, trying to get in, between the sentences, his account of another dinner, given by a friend of his at Mendon, after which every guest was ill for a fortnight. Madame Rosmey, Jean, and his mother, were planning an excursion to breakfast at Saint-Jean, from which they promised themselves the greatest pleasure. And Pierre was only sorry that he had not dined alone in some pot-house by the sea, so as to escape all this noise and laughter and glee which fretted him. He was wondering how he could now set to work to confide his fears to his brother, and induce him to renounce the fortune he had already accepted, and of which he was enjoying the intoxicating foretaste. It would be hard on him, no doubt, but it must be done. He could not hesitate, their mother's reputation was at stake. The appearance of an enormous shad-fish threw Roland back on fishing-stories. Boussier told some wonderful tales of adventure on the Gabon at Salmarie, in Madagascar, and above all off the coasts of China and Japan, where the fish are as queer-looking as the natives. And he described the appearance of these fishes, their goggle-gold eyes, their blue or red bellies, their fantastic fins like fans, their eccentric crescent-shaped tails, with such droll gesticulation that they all laughed till they cried as they listened. Pierre alone seemed incredulous, muttering to himself. True enough, the Normans are the Gascons of the North. After the fish came a vol au vin, then a roast-fowl, a salad, French beans, with a pite de vieux l'arc-pai. Madame Rosemey's maid helped to wait on them, and the fun rose with the number of glasses of wine they drank. When the cork of the first champagne bottle was drawn with a pop, Father Roland, highly excited, imitated the noise with his tongue, and then declared, I like that noise better than a pistol-shot. Pierre, more and more fractious every moment, retorted with a sneer. And yet it is perhaps a greater danger for you. Roland, who was on the point of drinking, set his full glass down on the table again, then asked, Why? He had for some time been complaining of his health, of heaviness, giddiness, frequent and unaccountable discomfort. The doctor replied, Because the bullet might very possibly miss you, while the glass of wine is dead certain to hit you in the stomach. And what then? Then it scorches your inside, upsets your nervous system, makes the circulation sluggish, and leads the way to the apoplectic fit which always threatens a man of your build. The jeweler's incipient intoxication had vanished like smoke before the wind. He looked at his son with fixed uneasy eyes, trying to discover whether he was making game of him. But Boussière exclaimed, Oh, these confounded doctors, they all sing the same tune. Eat nothing, drink nothing, never make love or enjoy yourself. It all plays the devil with your precious health. Well, all I can say is, I have done all these things, sir, in every quarter of the globe, whether and as often as I have the chance, and I am none the worse. Pierre answered with some asperity. In the first place, Captain, you are a stronger man than my father, and in the next all free livers talk as you do till the day when, when they come back no more to say to the cautious doctor, you were right. When I see my father doing what is worst and most dangerous for him, it is but natural that I should warn him. I should be a bad son if I did otherwise. Madame Roland, much distressed, now put in her word. Come, Pierre, what hails you? For once it cannot hurt him. Think of what an occasion it is for him, for all of us. You will spoil his pleasure and make us all unhappy. It is too bad of you to do such a thing. He muttered as he shrugged his shoulders. He can do as he pleases. I have warned him. But Father Roland did not drink. He sat looking at his glass full of the clear and luminous liquor, while its light soul, its intoxicating soul, flew off in tiny bubbles, mounting from its depths in hurried succession to die on the surface. He looked at it with the suspicious eye of a fox, smelling at a dead hen, and suspecting a trap. He asked doubtfully, Do you think it will really do me much harm? Pierre had a pang of remorse and blamed himself for letting his ill humor punish the rest. No, said he, just for once you may drink it, but do not take too much or get into the habit of it. Then Old Roland raised his glass, but still he could not make up his mind to put it to his lips. He contemplated it regretfully, with longing and with fear. Then he smelt it, tasted it, drank it in sips, swallowing them slowly, his heart full of terrors, of weakness and greediness, and then, when he had drained the last drop, of regret. Pierre's eyes suddenly met that of Madame Rosmeille. It rested on him clear and blue, far-seeing and hard. And he read, he knew, the precise thought which lurked in that look, the indignant thought of this simple and right-minded little woman, for the look said, You are jealous! That is what you are! Shameful! He bent his head and went on with his dinner. He was not hungry and found nothing nice, a longing to be off harassed him, a craving to be away from these people, to hear no more of their talking, jests and laughter. Father Roland, meanwhile, to whose head the fumes of the wine were rising once more, had already forgotten his son's advice and was eyeing a champagne bottle, with a tender leer, as it stood, still nearly full, by the side of his plate. He dared not touch it for fear of being lectured again, and he was wondering by what device or trick he could possess himself of it without exciting Pierre's remark. A ruse occurred to him, the simplest possible. He took up the bottle with an air of indifference, and holding it by the neck, stretched his arm across the table to fill the doctor's glass, which was empty. Then he filled up all the other glasses, and when he came to his own, he began talking very loud, so that if he poured anything into it, they might have sworn it was done inadvertently. And in fact no one took any notice. Pierre, without observing it, was drinking a good deal. Nervous and fretted, he every minute raised to his lips the tall crystal funnel, where the bubbles were dancing in the living translucent fluid. He let the wine slip very slowly over his tongue, that he might feel the little sugary sting of the fixed air as it evaporated. Gradually a pleasant warmth glowed in his frame. Starting from the stomach as a center, it spread to his chest, took possession of his limbs, and diffused itself throughout his flesh like a warm and comforting tide, bringing pleasure with it. He felt better now, less impatient, less annoyed, and his determination to speak to his brother that evening faded away. Not that he thought for a moment of giving it up, but simply not to disturb the happy mood in which he found himself. Boussier presently rose to propose a toast, having bowed to the company he began. Most gracious ladies and gentlemen, we have met to do honor to a happy event which has befallen one of our friends. 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 Avre the son of our worthy friend Roland, skipper of the pearl. Everyone 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 behavior on this occasion. Here's good luck to you.  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 Madame Rosmeille, 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 tomorrow, 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 Boussier cried out, Come, Madame Rosmeille, speak on behalf of the fair sacks. She raised her glass, and in a pretty voice, slightly touched with sadness, she said, I will pledge you to the memory of Monsieur Maréchal. There were a few moments lull, a pause for decent meditation, as after prayer. Boussier, 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 Maréchal, 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.  And he slept like a brute till nine next morning.


Hello everyone and welcome. Now we are going to review the basic sentence structure. Let's begin by going over the basic parts of the sentence. First, we have the subject. The subject is the person or thing that does something in the sentence. It is near the beginning of the sentence and is a noun. In the example, she likes cats, she is the subject. Next is the verb. A verb is a word that expresses an action, occurrence or state of being. In the example, she likes cats, likes is the verb. And last is the object, which is a person or thing that receives the action of the verb. In the example, she likes cats, cats would be your object. In English, word order is very important. The word order is subject plus verb plus object. For example, this sentence says he reads books. He is the subject, reads is the verb, books is the object. In English, sentences always happen in this order. Let's look at different English sentence patterns. English sentences have five basic patterns. First is subject plus a verb. This structure does not have an object. For example, Melissa is the subject, reads is the verb. Let's look at two more sentences. She is eating, Jim will leave. These sentences are very basic and do not have an object. In the next pattern, there is a subject plus a verb plus an object. I like eggs. In this sentence, we have a subject, I. A verb, like, and the object is eggs. She sees her sister. He is reading a book. These all have the same structure. Subject, verb, object. Then there is subject plus verb plus adjective. For example, he is smart. He is the subject, is, is the verb, and smart is the adjective. Another sentence, Laura is busy and the flowers are red. Notice that these all have a B verb. That's because we're using an adjective. Now this pattern, subject plus verb plus noun, describes people and things. For example, she is my friend. He is a doctor. They are teachers. These sentences all have a subject, a verb, and noun. So let's review. What are the basic sentence structures?  And there's also subject plus verb plus adverb, but we will talk about that later. I hope that you understand the sentence patterns better. Thank you and see you next time.


In this presentation, we will take a look at multiple choice questions related to budgeting, going through the questions and then practicing test taking skills with them. First question, all of the following are necessary for budgets, but a. Attainable goals, b. Communication with employees affected, c. Evaluations of budgets and performance, d. Awareness of limitations of budget and e. All budgeted amounts must be spent to ensure that budgets aren't reduced for the next period. Let's go through this again using the process of elimination. All the following are necessary for budgets, but so we're looking for the exception to the rule all of them being applicable except which one a. Attainable goals, so attainable goals. All the following are necessary for the budgeting. I would think attainable goals is something we want. So I would think that would be there. B says communication with employees affected. So a. Since a is there, I'm going to cross it out. Communication with employees. Again, you would think that's something that you'd want to do, but maybe it's not mandatory. I would keep that for now. C says evaluations of budgets and performance. And that's kind of what we do in the budgeting process. So I think that would be reasonable. D says awareness of limitations of budgets. Um, we probably want to have that as well. And I'll just keep that for now. But he says all budgeted amounts must be spent to ensure that budgets aren't reduced for the next period. And that doesn't sound that sounds a little kind of weird to do that. That might be actually done in practice, but it doesn't. It doesn't seem like the proper way of doing things. So let's go through this again. We'll read through this and go through them one more time. All the following are necessary for budgets, but so which one isn't necessary? Now, some of these we might say, hmm, I'm not sure if it's totally necessary or not. But we're actually looking for the one that doesn't fit and possibly the one that would be improper or not the most proper thing. So communication or B says communication with employees affected. You could argue it's not necessary, but I would think that'd be nice. It probably a good, be a good practice. I would think that would be part of it.


What'd you think after, I mean, I don't know what you're looking for in pre-season game one, what'd you think? Goods and bads, just like typical. I'm glad we won the game.  You just got to kind of play your rules and stuff like that. Well, they hurt us with some runs early in that first drive. They average like over five yards a run. Okay, so the good thing was, which is this kind of happens during the season. Sometimes when people change up on you, we got to the sideline, made some adjustments. And if you kind of look, they average 3.1 from that point on, which that would be by far the best in the league. 3.7 was best in the league last year and we ended up at 3-6. But so I didn't like the first drive. Obviously, you don't want to give up touchdown, but we also learned something from that in that we made some adjustments and the guys went out and made the adjustments, which is kind of what you like. The good thing was, we got two turnovers, led to 10 points for our offense. The bad thing is, we had three penalties that led to 10 points for their offense.  It's four points swing. So we got to eliminate those. A couple of mental errors, basically on second play of the game on second down. We made one, we just blew coverage. So we just got to eliminate those things. So that was good, but the other point too was, and third down was not good. We just, we couldn't get off the field. They had 16 third downs and 13 of them were third and six or more, which means you're doing pretty good on first and second down, but you can't have them convert 50% of those.  So we didn't do well in coverage sometimes on third down. But the other thing about it too was, I told you guys, I think I said something about Detroit, you know, Matt Campbell's teams are going to play physical. He was a physical player. He coaches physical, they're physical. I was concerned because you're really having a hit out of here. We did not have a lot of missed tackles. I think we had seven, maybe something like that, which that's pretty normed really during even during the year. I thought we stayed in there physically. I thought our guys hit, tried to hit, tried to play hard and that kind of stuff. So I felt good about that part. So that's kind of the goods and the bads of it. When it comes to Michael Walker, I see you guys talking on the sidelines quite a bit in practice. Where is he in terms of commanding this defense and kind of stepping into that leadership? Well, mentally, Michael Walker is top shelf. I mean, he really is smart, football smart, understands, communicates. I have no qualms whatsoever about him understanding this defense. Understanding the position sometimes is still a little bit of work in progress, but he's busting his butt and he's doing well. But communication-wise, that is never, Michael is a great communicator and knowing the defense. At what point maybe did you feel comfortable kind of giving him the reins of that communication? I was coming out of last year. I thought when we did walk-throughs over here, even with, even though he wasn't a starter, I felt like he communicated better than any of the starters did. When we did put him in, I thought he communicated well, was always on top of it, was into it. As soon as the season was over, as soon as we started getting prepared for this season, even before OTAs, we already had him marked down as a guy that called the huddle. Michael, can you explain to me from your perspective, from a defense formation perspective, the challenge of Kyle Pence, whether it's from the moment he walks in the field to the after this pre-snap and post-snap? What is it?  Is he a tight end? And the thing about it is now, I really noticed that he blocked him pretty well. And so all of a sudden, he used to be, okay, he's just a wide receiver. He may be in a tight end position, but he's actually blocking pretty well. And so it's a challenge. It's a real challenge. It's a pain. I mean, it's just when you get a guy like that who also can run by a DB. I mean, there's some tight ends that, there's a lot of them. Kelsey, there's a lot of guys in the league that are tough tight ends, always match-up tight ends. Gonzalez was one. All those guys, but most of the time, you don't worry about them running by a corner. This guy can run by a corner. So that's a real challenge. How much does that improve blocking, expand his capability out there? Just because now he's not just a token inline guy, he could actually... Right, you get to decide whether you want to play base and play with three linebackers in there or two linebackers and five DBs. What do you want to do?  When did you notice that he has become a better blocker? I mean, obviously, I guess you would expect that. Was there a day or two out here? In camp, when we put the pads on, even though we weren't... you're not tackling, but you're still going hard and especially up front, and you could notice just a big difference, out here against us, so... I just think he's really improved in that area, which now makes it even harder on teams. I think it is... talking about guys taking the jump from year one to year two, I really like that I've seen him decline Graham and I feel very confident in saying that he is somebody who has made that jump. Would you agree with that? Based on this last game here with Detroit, he really showed up. He was very noticeable in making plays, so I'd say he's made a big jump.  How much did Tokwan's development plan to feel good about where this group is, even from a depth standpoint? I think right now we are. It's just like anybody, though. You don't want to lose anybody right now because there is definitely a drop-off at some point in time on the line. But right now, if we can stay healthy, I feel good about these guys. I feel like there's some guys that can rotate in there and play different roles and somebody have to play, you know, 65, 70 snaps in a game, so I hope we can keep that going.