I mean he has better luck than you." He tossed a franc piece on the table and went out.
Now he kept repeating the phrase: "No wonder he is so unlike you." 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 Marechal's son.

The agitation which came over him at the notion of this 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 bock," he said.
He felt his heart beating, his skin was gooseflesh.

And then the recollection flashed upon him of what Marowsko had said the evening before.