"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. Well, at any rate you may take your oath that that man was a good and faithful friend to the last. Even on his death-bed he did not forget us."
Jean, in his turn, held out his hand for the picture. He gazed at it for a few minutes and then said regretfully:
"I do not recognise it at all. I only remember him with white hair."
He returned the miniature to his mother. She cast a hasty glance at it, looking away as if she were frightened; then in her usual voice she said:
"It belongs to you now, my little Jean, as you are his heir. We will take it to your new rooms."
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