Pierre and Jean had remained in the little outer drawing-room; the younger still sore under the criticism passed on his taste, and the elder chafing more and more at seeing his brother in this abode. They both sat smoking without a word. Pierre suddenly started to his feet.
“Cristi!” he exclaimed. “The widow looked very jaded this evening. Long excursions do not improve her.”
Jean felt his spirit rising with one of those sudden and furious rages which boil up in easy-going natures when they are wounded to the quick. He could hardly find breath to speak, so fierce was his excitement, and he stammered out:
“I forbid you ever again to say ‘the widow’ when you speak of Mme. Rosémilly.”
Pierre turned on him haughtily:
“You are giving me an order, I believe. Are you gone mad by any chance?”
Jean had pulled himself up.
“I am not gone mad, but I have had enough of your manners to me.”
Pierre sneered: “To you? And are you any part of Mme. Rosémilly?”
“You are to know that Mme. Rosémilly is about to become my wife.”