Of course he believed it! How could he help believing it when the thing must seem so possible, so probable, self-evident?
Why, he himself, Pierre, her son--had not he been for these three days past fighting with all the subtlety at his command to cheat his reason, fighting against this hideous suspicion?
And suddenly the need to be alone, to reflect, to discuss the matter with himself--to face boldly, without scruple or weakness, this possible but monstrous thing--came upon him anew, and so imperative that he rose without even drinking his glass of _Groseillette_, shook hands with the astounded druggist, and plunged out into the foggy streets again.
He asked himself: "What made this Marechal leave all his fortune to Jean ?" It was not jealousy now which made him dwell on this question, not the rather mean but natural envy which he knew lurked within him, and with which he had been struggling these three days, but the dread of an overpowering horror; the dread that he himself should believe that Jean, his brother, was that man's son.
No.

He did not believe it, he could not even ask himself the question which was a crime! Meanwhile he must get rid of this faint suspicion, improbable as it was, utterly and forever.

He craved for light, for certainty--he must win absolute security in his heart, for he loved no one in the world but his mother.

And as he wandered alone through the darkness he would rack his memory and his reason with a minute search that should bring out the blazing truth.

Then there would be an end to the matter; he would not think of it again--never.