much, or get into the habit of it."

Then old Roland raised his glass, but still he could not make up his
mind to put it to his lips. He contemplated it regretfully, with longing
and with fear; then he smelt it, tasted it, drank it in sips, swallowing
them slowly, his heart full of terrors, of weakness and greediness; and
then, when he had drained the last drop, of regret.

Pierre's eye suddenly met that of Mme. Rosemilly; it rested on him clear
and blue, far-seeing and hard. And he read, he knew, the precise thought
which lurked in that look, the indignant thought of this simple and
right-minded little woman; for the look said: "You are jealous--that is
what you are. Shameful!"

He bent his head and went on with his dinner.

He was not hungry and found nothing nice. A longing to be off harassed
him, a craving to be away from these people, to hear no more of their
talking, jests, and laughter.

Father Roland meanwhile, to whose head the fumes of the wine were rising
once more, had already forgotten his son's advice and was eyeing a
champagne-bottle with a tender leer as it stood, still nearly full, by
the side of his plate. He dared not touch it for fear of being lectured
again, and he was wondering by what device or trick he could possess
himself of it without exciting Pierre's remark. A ruse occurred to
him, the simplest possible. He took up the bottle with an air of
indifference, and holding it by the neck, stretched his arm across the
table to fill the doctor's glass, which was empty; then he filled up
all the other glasses, and when he came to his own he began talking very