The chief difficulty with him was to conquer his ever-present jealousy. Perhaps Laurence had only partly assumed the rôle of a jealous woman. Probably she was really inclined that way, and had needed only a trifling exaggeration to serve her purpose, for her son was, unfortunately for him and for others, abnormally provided with that sad faculty for making every being dear to one entirely miserable. Let Marguerite display the least bit of enthusiasm, or flattering appreciation, toward anyone, a puppy-dog even, and Piotr would be at once convulsed with fury. He did not sulk; he stormed whole-souledly; he threw himself on the ground and he rolled over and over, shrieking aloud, beating his head on the floor, tearing his hair, actually foaming at the mouth; and so painful were these outbreaks that they were considered at Plenhöel as visitations to be avoided by every possible means. “If he were mine,” the village doctor, a retired surgeon-major of the navy, often said, “I’d make him acquainted with a rope’s end, and that without delay. Is it possible to see a youngster get himself into such states and remain neutral? Only mademoiselle is capable of it, but she’s an angel of God. Besides, she’d crawl through a knothole to please him.” Perchance the doctor was right, perhaps he was wrong, in his particular choice of a remedy, but, be it as it may, Marguerite would not hear of drastic measures; in which opinion her father bore her out, for, as he sagely remarked, with such an organization it was impossible to know what brute force might produce. In spite of these two wretched blemishes, Piotr was the most fascinating boy one could imagine, and Plenhöel paid him homage as to a beloved Dauphin. Ireland, Monsieur Quentin, François, Madame Hortense, the coachmen, gardeners, stablemen, _chefs_, footmen, grooms, the aged housekeeper, the maids, not to mention the farmers, villagers, and salt-workers, were his willing subjects. As to the crews of the yacht and sailing-boats, they raised him to the throne of a little sea-god, pure and simple. Warm-hearted, hot-headed, plucky as they make ’em, and generous to a fault, this was Piotr. Also he had the religion of remembrance--a rare gift--and not a day passed without his speaking of his father. He was handsome, too, to a surprising, an alarming degree; with features too classically perfect for a lad of his years, and magnetic eyes, changeful in shape and hue with every new expression. “_Quand il aura vingt ans il faudra enfermer les poulettes, par exemple!_” the doctor was quoted as declaring on repeated occasions, and this seemed like prophetic talk. Basil wrote almost regularly to Régis, “from China or India, Mars or the Moon,” as the Marquis was wont to vaguely explain, and Marguerite helped Piotr pencil a couple of lines to accompany every one of her father’s replies to each of those erratic missives. My dear, dear Papa. When are you coming back? I am very big now. I love you. Piotr.