It could be seen swirling past the gas-lights, which it seemed to put out at intervals.
The pavement was as slippery as on a frosty night after rain, and all sorts of evil smells seemed to come up from the bowels of the houses--the stench of cellars, drains, sewers, squalid kitchens--to mingle with the horrible savour of this wandering fog.
Pierre, with his shoulders up and his hands in his pockets, not caring to remain out of doors in the cold, turned into Marowsko's.

The druggist was asleep as usual under the gas-light, which kept watch.

On recognising Pierre for whom he had the affection of a faithful dog, he shook off his drowsiness, went for two glasses, and brought out the _Groseillette_.
"Well," said the doctor, "how is the liqueur getting on ?" The Pole explained that four of the chief cafes in the town had agreed to have it on sale, and that two papers, the _Northcoast Pharos_ and the _Havre Semaphore_, would advertise it, in return for certain chemical preparations to be supplied to the editors.
After a long silence Marowsko asked whether Jean had come definitely into possession of his fortune; and then he put two or three other questions vaguely referring to the same subject.

His jealous devotion to Pierre rebelled against this preference.

And Pierre felt as though he could hear him thinking; he guessed and understood, read in his averted eyes and in the hesitancy of his tone, the words which rose to his lips but were not spoken--which the druggist was too timid or too prudent and cautious to utter.
At this moment, he felt sure, the old man was thinking: "You ought not to have suffered him to accept this inheritance which will make people speak ill of your mother." Perhaps, indeed, Marowsko believed that Jean was Marechal's son.