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 Mme.
Rosemilly.

But he promptly sat down again.

He did not like that woman.
Why not?
She had too much vulgar and sordid 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 and 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, seem the one thing needful, there and then, to our heart.