And he was a prey to this vagabond convict's life solely because his mother had sinned.
He walked on, his heart sinking with the despairing sorrow of those who are doomed to exile. He no longer felt a haughty disdain and scornful hatred of the strangers he met, but a woeful impulse to speak to them, to tell them all that he had to quit France, to be listened to and comforted. There was in the very depths of his heart the shamefaced need of a beggar who would fain hold out his hand—a timid but urgent need to feel that some one would grieve at his departing.
He thought of Marowsko. The old Pole was the only person who loved him well enough to feel true and keen emotion, and the doctor at once determined to go and see him.
When he entered the shop, the druggist, who was pounding powders in a marble mortar, started and left his work:
"You are never to be seen nowadays," said he.
Pierre explained that he had had a great many serious matters to attend to, but without giving the reason, and he took a seat, asking:
"Well, and how is business doing?"
Business was not doing at all. Competition was fearful, and rich folks rare in that workman's quarter. Nothing would sell but cheap drugs, and the doctors did not prescribe the costlier and more complicated remedies on which a profit is made of five hundred per cent. The old fellow ended by saying: "If this goes on for three months I shall shut up shop. If I did not count on you, dear good doctor, I should have turned shoeblack by this time."
Pierre felt a pang, and made up his mind to deal the blow at once, since it must be done.
"I—oh, I cannot be of any use to you. I am leaving Havre early next month."