For three years Pierre had not once seen Guillaume, whom in his childhood he had worshipped as a kind, merry, and fatherly big brother.
But there came an awful pang to his heart--he once more beheld his mother lying dead.

This again was a thunderbolt, an illness of scarce three days' duration, a sudden passing away, as in the case of Madame de Guersaint.

One evening, after a wild hunt for the doctor, he had found her motionless and quite white.

She had died during his absence; and his lips had ever retained the icy thrill of the last kiss that he had given her.

Of everything else--the vigil, the preparations, the funeral--he remembered nothing.