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--thank you!" he stammered.
And Pierre turned away with his slow step, his stick under his arm, and his hands behind his back.
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 Marowsko," and he went off towards the quarter of the town known as Ingouville.
He had known old Marowsko-_le pere Marowsko_, 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 druggist in France after passing a fresh examination.