Pierre and Jean | Page 5

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 that 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 ever-lastingly hearing the praises of this great
lad, whose sweetness in his eyes was indolence, whose gentleness was
stupidity, and whose kindliness 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 book- keeper, 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 neighbour, Mme. Rosemilly, 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 weighted 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 neighbours, 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.

Mme. Rosemilly 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 crotchets." 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 M. 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 Beausire, 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 Papagris, known as
Jean Bart, in whose charge the boat was left.
But one evening of the week before, Mme. Rosemilly, who had been
dining with them, remarked, "It must be great fun to go out fishing."
The jeweller, flattered by her interest and suddenly fired with the wish
to share his favourite 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