Little Pierre, for his part, did not like Brest at all. He found it a
most uncomfortable place, ugly and dark.
He had lived there only for four months, and already his round cheeks
had paled a little under their bronze. Before, they were like those ripe
nectarines of the south country which are of a warm golden colour, a red
stained with sun.
His eyes were black and shone with the sparkle of jet, like those of his
mother, from between beautiful long eyelashes. In his little eyebrows
there was already a suggestion of seriousness, which came from Yves.
He would have made a pretty picture, with his thoughtful expression and
the manly and forceful little air which he had already like a grown lad.
Now and then he had still his moments of noisy gaiety; he jumped and
skipped about the gloomy room, making a great commotion.
But this did not happen so often as at Toulven. He missed, in his
already vague baby memory, he missed the little playmates of the
beech-bordered lane, and the petting of his grandparents, and the songs
of his old great-grandmother. There, everybody took notice of him, while
here he was nearly always alone.
No, he did not like the town. And then he was always cold, in this bare
room and on these old stone staircases.