ing all the mysteries of his mind as bigots search their consciences.
Mme. Rosémilly, though her intelligence was limited, had certainly a woman's instinct, scent, and subtle intuitions. And this notion had never entered her head, since she had, with perfect simplicity, drunk to the blessed memory of the deceased Maréchal. She was not the woman to have done this if she had had the faintest suspicion. Now he doubted no longer; his involuntary displeasure at his brother's windfall of fortune and his religious affection for his mother had magnified his scruples—very pious and respectable scruples, but exaggerated. As he put this conclusion into words in his own mind he felt happy, as at the doing of a good action; and he resolved to be nice to every one, beginning with his father, whose manias, and silly statements, and vulgar opinions, and too conspicuous mediocrity were a constant irritation to him.
He came in not late for breakfast, and amused all the family by his fun and good humour.
His mother, quite delighted, said to him:
"My little Pierre, you have no notion how humorous and clever you can be when you choose."
And he talked, putting things in a witty way, and making them laugh by ingenious hits at their
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