And quite delighted, he went to a cupboard, opened it, and picked out a bottle which he brought forth. He moved and did everything in jerky gestures, always incomplete; he never quite stretched out his arm, nor quite put out his legs; nor made any broad and definite movements. His ideas seemed to be like his actions; he suggested them, promised them, sketched them, hinted at them, but never fully uttered them. And indeed, his great end in life seemed to be the concoction of syrups and liqueurs. "A good syrup or a good liqueur is enough to make a fortune," he would often say. He had compounded hundreds of these sweet mixtures without ever succeeding in floating one of them. Pierre declared that Marowsko always reminded him of Marat. Two little glasses were fetched out of the back shop and placed on the mixing-board. Then the two men scrutinized the color of the fluid by holding it up to the gas. "A fine ruby," Pierre declared. "Isn't it?" Marowsko's old parrot-face beamed with satisfaction. The doctor tasted, smacked his lips, meditated, tasted again, meditated again, and spoke: "Very good--capital; and quite new in flavor. It is a find, my dear fellow." "Ah, really? Well, I am very glad." Then Marowsko took counsel as to baptizing the new liqueur. He wanted to call it "Extract of currants," or else "_Fine Groseille_," or "_Groselia_," or again "_Groseline_." Pierre did not approve of either of these names. Then the old man had an idea: "What you said just now would be very good, very good: 'Fine Ruby.'" But the doctor disputed the merit of this name, though it had originated with him. He recommended simply "Groseillette," which Marowsko thought admirable. Then they were silent, and sat for some minutes without a word under the solitary gas-lamp. At last Pierre began, almost in spite of himself: "A queer thing has happened at home this evening. A friend of my father's, who is lately dead, has left his fortune to my brother." The druggist did not at first seem to understand, but after thinking it over he hoped that the doctor had half the inheritance. When the matter was clearly explained to him he appeared surprised and vexed; and to express his dissatisfaction at finding that his young friend had been sacrificed, he said several times over: "It will not look well." Pierre, who was relapsing into nervous irritation, wanted to know what Marowsko meant by this phrase. Why would it not look well? What was there to look badly in the fact that his brother had come into the money of a friend of the family? But the cautious old man would not explain further. "In such a case the money is left equally to the two brothers, and I tell you, it will not look well." And the doctor, out of all patience, went away, returned to his father's house, and went to bed. For some time yet he could hear Jean moving softly about the adjoining room, and then, after drinking two glasses of water, he fell asleep. CHAPTER III