Then, fully aware that his mother was looking at him, he slowly raised his eyes and fixed them on his brother to compare the faces.

He could hardly refrain, in his violence, from saying: "Dear me! How like Jean!" And though he dared not utter the terrible words, he betrayed his thought by his manner of comparing the living face with the painted one.
They had, no doubt, details in common; the same beard, the same brow; but nothing sufficiently marked to justify the assertion: "This is the father and that the son." It was rather a family likeness, a relationship of physiognomies in which the same blood courses.

But what to Pierre was far more decisive than the common aspect of the faces, was that his mother had risen, had turned her back, and was pretending, too deliberately, to be putting the sugar basin and the liqueur bottle away in a cupboard.

She understood that he knew, or at any rate had his suspicions.
"Hand it on to me," said Roland.
Pierre held out the miniature and his father drew the candle towards him to see it better; then, he murmured in a pathetic tone: "Poor fellow! To think that he was like that when we first knew him! Cristi! How time flies! He was a good-looking man, too, in those days, and with such a pleasant manner--was not he, Louise ?" As his wife made no answer he went on: "And what an even temper! I never saw him put out.

And now it is all at an end--nothing left of him--but what he bequeathed to Jean.