The ship was almost touching the _Pearl_ now, as tall as a mountain and as swift as a train. Mme. Roland, distraught and desperate, held out her arms toward it; and she saw her son, her Pierre, with his officer's cap on, throwing kisses to her with both hands. But he was going away, flying, vanishing, a tiny speck already, no more than an imperceptible spot on the enormous vessel. She tried still to distinguish him, but she could not. Jean took her hand: "You saw?" he said. "Yes, I saw. How good he is!" And they turned to go home. "Cristi! How fast she goes!" exclaimed Roland with enthusiastic conviction. The steamer, in fact, was shrinking every second, as though she were melting away in the ocean. Mme. Roland, turning back to look at her, watched her disappearing on the horizon, on her way to an unknown land at the other side of the world. In that vessel which nothing could stay, that vessel which she soon would see no more, was her son, her poor son. And she felt as though half her heart had gone with him; she felt, too, as if her life were ended; yes, and she felt as though she would never see the child again. "Why are you crying?" asked her husband, "when you know he will be back again within a month." She stammered out: "I don't know, I cry because I am hurt." When they had landed, Beausire at once took leave of them to go to breakfast with a friend. Then Jean led the way with Mme. Rosemilly, and Roland said to his wife: "A very fine fellow, all the same, is our Jean." "Yes," replied the mother. And her mind being too much bewildered to think of what she was saying, she went on: "I am very glad that he is to marry Mme. Rosemilly." The worthy man was astounded. "Heh? What? He is to marry Mme. Rosemilly?" "Yes, we meant to ask your opinion about it this very day." "Bless me. And has this engagement been long in the wind?" "Oh, no, only a very few days. Jean wished to make sure that she would accept him before consulting you." Roland rubbed his hands. "Very good. Very good. It is capital. I entirely approve." As they were about to turn off from the quay down the Boulevard Francois 1er, his wife once more looked back to cast a last look at the high seas, but she could see nothing now but a puff of gray smoke, so far away, so faint that it looked like a film of haze. DREAMS It was after a dinner of friends, of old friends. There were five of them, a writer, a doctor, and three rich bachelors without any profession. They had talked about everything, and a feeling of lassitude came on, that feeling of lassitude which precedes and leads to the departure of guests after festive gatherings. One of those present, who had for the last five minutes been gazing silently at the surging boulevard starred with gas-lamps, and rattling with vehicles, said suddenly: "When you've nothing to do from morning till night, the days are long."