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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 flavour. It is a find, my dear fellow." "Ah, really? Well, I am very glad." Then Marowsko took counsel as to baptizing the new liqueur.
Pierre often went to see him and chat with him for an hour after dinner, for he liked Marowsko's calm look and rare speech, and attributed great depth to his long spells of silence. A simple gas-burner was alight over the counter crowded with phials. Those in the window were not lighted, from motives of economy.
And yet this was how he had been living all these days since his return home, without suffering so acutely from the vacuity of his existence and from inaction. How had he spent his time from rising in the morning till bed-time? He had loafed on the pier at high tide, loafed in the streets, loafed in the cafes, loafed at Marowsko's, loafed everywhere.
Pierre, with his shoulders up and his hands in his pockets, not caring to remain out of doors in the cold, turned into Marowsko's. The druggist was asleep as usual under the gas-light, which kept watch. On recognising Pierre for whom he had the affection of a faithful dog, he shook off his drowsiness, went for two glasses, and brought out the Groseillette.
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