His brother--his little brother! So all their love was over; hatred and violence were about to poison their lives.

For hours Guillaume continued complaining deliriously, and seeking how he might so rid himself of Pierre that what had happened should be blotted out.

Now and again, when he recovered self-control, he marvelled at the tempest within him; for was he not a _savant_ guided by lofty reason, a toiler to whom long experience had brought serenity?
But the truth was that this tempest had not sprung up in his mind, it was raging in the child-like soul that he had retained, the nook of affection and dreaminess which remained within him side by side with his principles of pitiless logic and his belief in proven phenomena only.

His very genius came from the duality of his nature: behind the chemist was a social dreamer, hungering for justice and capable of the greatest love.

And now passion was transporting him, and he was weeping for the loss of Marie as he would have wept over the downfall of that dream of his, the destruction of war _by_ war, that scheme for the salvation of mankind at which he had been working for ten years past.
At last, amidst his weariness, a sudden resolution calmed him.