Monsieur Parent

by Guy de Maupassant

George's father was sitting in an iron chair, watching his little sonwith concentrated affection and attention, as little George piled up thesand into heaps during one of their walks. He would take up the sandwith both hands, make a mound of it, and put a chestnut leaf on top.His father saw no one but him in that public park full of people.The sun was just disappearing behind the roofs of the Rue Saint-Lazare,but still shed its rays obliquely on that little, overdressed crowd.The chestnut trees were lighted up by its yellow rays, and the threefountains before the lofty porch of the church had the appearance ofliquid silver.Monsieur Parent, accidentally looking up at the church clock, saw that hewas five minutes late. He got up, took the child by the arm, shook hisdress, which was covered with sand, wiped his hands, and led him in thedirection of the Rue Blanche. He walked quickly, so as not to get inafter his wife, and the child could not keep up with him. He took him upand carried him, though it made him pant when he had to walk up the steepstreet. He was a man of forty, already turning gray, and rather stout.At last he reached his house. An old servant who had brought him up, oneof those trusted servants who are the tyrants of families, opened thedoor to him."Has madame come in yet?" he asked anxiously.The servant shrugged her shoulders:"When have you ever known madame to come home at half-past six,monsieur?""Very well; all the better; it will give me time to change my things, forI am very warm."The servant looked at him with angry and contemptuous pity. "Oh, I cansee that well enough," she grumbled. "You are covered with perspiration,monsieur. I suppose you walked quickly and carried the child, and onlyto have to wait until half-past seven, perhaps, for madame. I have madeup my mind not to have dinner ready on time. I shall get it for eighto'clock, and if, you have to wait, I cannot help it; roast meat ought notto be burnt!"Monsieur Parent pretended not to hear, but went into his own room, and assoon as he got in, locked the door, so as to be alone, quite alone. Hewas so used now to being abused and badly treated that he never thoughthimself safe except when he was locked in.What could he do? To get rid of Julie seemed to him such a formidablething to do that he hardly ventured to think of it, but it was just asimpossible to uphold her against his wife, and before another month thesituation would become unbearable between the two. He remained sittingthere, with his arms hanging down, vaguely trying to discover some meansto set matters straight, but without success. He said to himself: "It islucky that I have George; without him I should-be very miserable."Just then the clock struck seven, and he started up. Seven o'clock, andhe had not even changed his clothes. Nervous and breathless, heundressed, put on a clean shirt, hastily finished his toilet, as if hehad been expected in the next room for some event of extreme importance,and went into the drawing-room, happy at having nothing to fear. Heglanced at the newspaper, went and looked out of the window, and then satdown again, when the door opened, and the boy came in, washed, brushed,and smiling. Parent took him up in his arms and kissed him passionately;then he tossed him into the air, and held him up to the ceiling, but soonsat down again, as he was tired with all his exertion. Then, takingGeorge on his knee, he made him ride a-cock-horse. The child laughed andclapped his hands and shouted with pleasure, as did his father, wholaughed until his big stomach shook, for it amused him almost more thanit did the child.Parent loved him with all the heart of a weak, resigned, ill-used man.He loved him with mad bursts of affection, with caresses and with all thebashful tenderness which was hidden in him, and which had never found anoutlet, even at the early period of his married life, for his wife hadalways shown herself cold and reserved.Just then Julie came to the door, with a pale face and glistening eyes,and said in a voice which trembled with exasperation: "It is half-pastseven, monsieur."Parent gave an uneasy and resigned look at the clock and replied: "Yes,it certainly is half-past seven.""Well, my dinner is quite ready now."Seeing the storm which was coming, he tried to turn it aside. "But didyou not tell me when I came in that it would not be ready before eight?""Eight! what are you thinking about? You surely do not mean to let thechild dine at eight o'clock? It would ruin his stomach. Just supposethat he only had his mother to look after him! She cares a great dealabout her child. Oh, yes, we will speak about her; she is a mother!What a pity it is that there should be any mothers like her!"Parent thought it was time to cut short a threatened scene. "Julie," hesaid, "I will not allow you to speak like that of your mistress. Youunderstand me, do you not? Do not forget it in the future."The old servant, who was nearly choked with surprise, turned and wentout, slamming the door so violently after her that the lustres on thechandelier rattled, and for some seconds it sounded as if a number oflittle invisible bells were ringing in the drawing-room.Eight o'clock struck, the door opened, and Julie came in again. She hadlost her look of exasperation, but now she put on an air of cold anddetermined resolution, which was still more formidable."Monsieur," she said, "I served your mother until the day of her death,and I have attended to you from your birth until now, and I think it maybe said that I am devoted to the family." She waited for a reply, andParent stammered:"Why, yes, certainly, my good Julie.""You know quite well," she continued, "that I have never done anythingfor the sake of money, but always for your sake; that I have neverdeceived you nor lied to you, that you have never had to find fault withme--""Certainly, my good Julie.""Very well, then, monsieur; it cannot go on any longer like this. I havesaid nothing, and left you in your ignorance, out of respect and likingfor you, but it is too much, and every one in the neighborhood islaughing at you. Everybody knows about it, and so I must tell you also,although I do not like to repeat it. The reason why madame comes in atany time she chooses is that she is doing abominable things."He seemed stupefied and not to understand, and could only stammer out:"Hold your tongue; you know I have forbidden you----"But she interrupted him with irresistible resolution. "No, monsieur, Imust tell you everything now. For a long time madame has been carryingon with Monsieur Limousin. I have seen them kiss scores of times behindthe door. Ah! you may be sure that if Monsieur Limousin had been rich,madame would never have married Monsieur Parent. If you remember how themarriage was brought about, you would understand the matter frombeginning to end."Parent had risen, and stammered out, his face livid: "Hold your tongue-hold your tongue, or----"She went on, however: "No, I mean to tell you everything. She marriedyou from interest, and she deceived you from the very first day. It wasall settled between them beforehand. You need only reflect for a fewmoments to understand it, and then, as she was not satisfied with havingmarried you, as she did not love you, she has made your life miserable,so miserable that it has almost broken my heart when I have seen it."He walked up and down the room with hands clenched, repeating: "Hold yourtongue--hold your tongue----" For he could find nothing else to say.The old servant, however, would not yield; she seemed resolved oneverything.George, who had been at first astonished and then frightened at thoseangry voices, began to utter shrill screams, and remained behind hisfather, with his face puckered up and his mouth open, roaring.His son's screams exasperated Parent, and filled him with rage andcourage. He rushed at Julie with both arms raised, ready to strike her,exclaiming: "Ah! you wretch. You will drive the child out of hissenses." He already had his hand on her, when she screamed in his face:"Monsieur, you may beat me if you like, me who reared you, but that willnot prevent your wife from deceiving you, or alter the fact that yourchild is not yours----"He stopped suddenly, let his arms fall, and remained standing opposite toher, so overwhelmed that he could understand nothing more."You need only to look at the child," she added, "to know who is itsfather! He is the very image of Monsieur Limousin. You need only lookat his eyes and forehead. Why, a blind man could not be mistaken inhim."He had taken her by the shoulders, and was now shaking her with all hismight. "Viper, viper!" he said. "Go out the room, viper! Go out, or Ishall kill you! Go out! Go out!"And with a desperate effort he threw her into the next room. She fellacross the table, which was laid for dinner, breaking the glasses. Then,rising to her feet, she put the table between her master and herself.While he was pursuing her, in order to take hold of her again, she flungterrible words at him."You need only go out this evening after dinner, and come in againimmediately, and you will see! You will see whether I have been lying!Just try it, and you will see." She had reached the kitchen door andescaped, but he ran after her, up the back stairs to her bedroom, intowhich she had locked herself, and knocking at the door, he said:"You will leave my house this very instant!""You may be certain of that, monsieur," was her reply. "In an hour'stime I shall not be here any longer."He then went slowly downstairs again, holding on to the banister so asnot to fall, and went back to the drawing-room, where little George wassitting on the floor, crying. He fell into a chair, and looked at thechild with dull eyes. He understood nothing, knew nothing more; he feltdazed, stupefied, mad, as if he had just fallen on his head, and hescarcely even remembered the dreadful things the servant had told him.Then, by degrees, his mind, like muddy water, became calmer and clearer,and the abominable revelations began to work in his heart.He was no longer thinking of George. The child was quiet now and sittingon the carpet; but, seeing that no notice was being taken of him, hebegan to cry. His father ran to him, took him in his arms, and coveredhim with kisses. His child remained to him, at any rate! What did therest matter? He held him in his arms and pressed his lips to his lighthair, and, relieved and composed, he whispered:"George--my little George--my dear little George----" But he suddenlyremembered what Julie had said! Yes, she had said that he was Limousin'schild. Oh! it could not be possible, surely. He could not believe it,could not doubt, even for a moment, that he was his own child. It wasone of those low scandals which spring from servants' brains! And herepeated: "George--my dear little George." The youngster was quietagain, now that his father was fondling him.Parent felt the warmth of the little chest penetrate through his clothes,and it filled him with love, courage, and happiness; that gentle warmthsoothed him, fortified him and saved him. Then he put the small, curlyhead away from him a little, and looked at it affectionately, stillrepeating: "George! Oh, my little George!" But suddenly he thought:"Suppose he were to resemble Limousin, after all!" He looked at him withhaggard, troubled eyes, and tried to discover whether there was anylikeness in his forehead, in his nose, mouth, or cheeks. His thoughtswandered as they do when a person is going mad, and his child's facechanged in his eyes, and assumed a strange look and improbableresemblances.The hall bell rang. Parent gave a bound as if a bullet had gone throughhim. "There she is," he said. "What shall I do?" And he ran and lockedhimself up in his room, to have time to bathe his eyes. But in a fewmoments another ring at the bell made him jump again, and then heremembered that Julie had left, without the housemaid knowing it, and sonobody would go to open the door. What was he to do? He went himself,and suddenly he felt brave, resolute, ready for dissimulation and thestruggle. The terrible blow had matured him in a few moments. He wishedto know the truth, he desired it with the rage of a timid man, and withthe tenacity of an easy-going man who has been exasperated.Nevertheless, he trembled. Does one know how much excited cowardicethere often is in boldness? He went to the door with furtive steps, andstopped to listen; his heart beat furiously. Suddenly, however, thenoise of the bell over his head startled him like an explosion. Heseized the lock, turned the key, and opening the door, saw his wife andLimousin standing before him on the stairs.With an air of astonishment, which also betrayed a little irritation, shesaid:"So you open the door now? Where is Julie?"His throat felt tight and his breathing was labored as he tried to.reply, without being able to utter a word."Are you dumb?" she continued. "I asked you where Julie is?""She--she--has--gone----" he managed to stammer.His wife began to get angry. "What do you mean by gone? Where has shegone? Why?"By degrees he regained his coolness. He felt an intense hatred rise upin him for that insolent woman who was standing before him."Yes, she has gone altogether. I sent her away.""You have sent away Julie? Why, you must be mad.""Yes, I sent her away because she was insolent, and because--because shewas ill-using the child.""Julie?""Yes--Julie.""What was she insolent about?""About you.""About me?""Yes, because the dinner was burnt, and you did not come in.""And she said----""She said--offensive things about you--which I ought not--which I couldnot listen to----""What did she, say?""It is no good repeating them.""I want to hear them.""She said it was unfortunate for a man like me to be married to a womanlike you, unpunctual, careless, disorderly, a bad mother, and a badwife."The young woman had gone into the anteroom, followed by Limousin, who didnot say a word at this unexpected condition of things. She shut the doorquickly, threw her cloak on a chair, and going straight up to herhusband, she stammered out:"You say? You say? That I am----"Very pale and calm, he replied: "I say nothing, my dear. I am simplyrepeating what Julie said to me, as you wanted to know what it was, and Iwish you to remark that I turned her off just on account of what shesaid."She trembled with a violent longing to tear out his beard and scratch hisface. In his voice and manner she felt that he was asserting hisposition as master. Although she had nothing to say by way of reply, shetried to assume the offensive by saying something unpleasant. "I supposeyou have had dinner?" she asked."No, I waited for you."She shrugged her shoulders impatiently. "It is very stupid of you towait after half-past seven," she said. "You might have guessed that Iwas detained, that I had a good many things to do, visits and shopping,"And then, suddenly, she felt that she wanted to explain how she had spenther time, and told him in abrupt, haughty words that, having to buy somefurniture in a shop a long distance off, very far off, in the Rue deRennes, she had met Limousin at past seven o'clock on the BoulevardSaint-Germain, and that then she had gone with him to have something toeat in a restaurant, as she did not like to go to one by herself,although she was faint with hunger. That was how she had dined withLimousin, if it could be called dining, for they had only some soup andhalf a chicken, as they were in a great hurry to get back.Parent replied simply: "Well, you were quite right. I am not findingfault with you."Then Limousin, who, had not spoken till then, and who had been halfhidden behind Henriette, came forward and put out his hand, saying: "Areyou very well?"Parent took his hand, and shaking it gently, replied: "Yes, I am verywell."But the young woman had felt a reproach in her husband's last words."Finding fault! Why do you speak of finding fault? One might think thatyou meant to imply something.""Not at all," he replied, by way of excuse. "I simply meant that I wasnot at all anxious although you were late, and that I did not find faultwith you for it."She, however, took the high hand, and tried to find a pretext for aquarrel. "Although I was late? One might really think that it was oneo'clock in the morning, and that I spent my nights away from home.""Certainly not, my dear. I said late because I could find no other word.You said you should be back at half-past six, and you returned at half-past eight. That was surely being late. I understand it perfectly well.I am not at all surprised, even. But--but--I can hardly use any otherword.""But you pronounce them as if I had been out all night.""Oh, no-oh, no!"She saw that he would yield on every point, and she was going into herown room, when at last she noticed that George was screaming, and thenshe asked, with some feeling: "What is the matter with the child?""I told you that Julie had been rather unkind to him.""What has the wretch been doing to him?""Oh nothing much. She gave him a push, and he fell down."She wanted to see her child, and ran into the dining room, but stoppedshort at the sight of the table covered with spilt wine, with brokendecanters and glasses and overturned saltcellars. "Who did all thatmischief?" she asked."It was Julie, who----" But she interrupted him furiously:"That is too much, really! Julie speaks of me as if I were a shamelesswoman, beats my child, breaks my plates and dishes, turns my house upsidedown, and it appears that you think it all quite natural.""Certainly not, as I have got rid of her.""Really! You have got rid of her! But you ought to have given her incharge. In such cases, one ought to call in the Commissary of Police!""But--my dear--I really could not. There was no reason. It would havebeen very difficult----"She shrugged her shoulders disdainfully. "There! you will never beanything but a poor, wretched fellow, a man without a will, without anyfirmness or energy. Ah! she must have said some nice things to you, yourJulie, to make you turn her off like that. I should like to have beenhere for a minute, only for a minute." Then she opened the drawing-roomdoor and ran to George, took him into her arms and kissed him, and said:"Georgie, what is it, my darling, my pretty one, my treasure?"Then, suddenly turning to another idea, she said: "But the child has hadno dinner? You have had nothing to eat, my pet?""No, mamma."Then she again turned furiously upon her husband. "Why, you must be mad,utterly mad! It is half-past eight, and George has had no dinner!"He excused himself as best he could, for he had nearly lost his witsthrough the overwhelming scene and the explanation, and felt crushed bythis ruin of his life. "But, my dear, we were waiting for you, as I didnot wish to dine without you. As you come home late every day, Iexpected you every moment."She threw her bonnet, which she had kept on till then, into an easy-chair, and in an angry voice she said: "It is really intolerable to haveto do with people who can understand nothing, who can divine nothing anddo nothing by themselves. So, I suppose, if I were to come in at twelveo'clock at night, the child would have had nothing to eat? Just as ifyou could not have understood that, as it was after half-past seven, Iwas prevented from coming home, that I had met with some hindrance!"Parent trembled, for he felt that his anger was getting the upper hand,but Limousin interposed, and turning toward the young woman, said:"My dear friend, you, are altogether unjust. Parent could not guess thatyou would come here so late, as you never do so, and then, how could youexpect him to get over the difficulty all by himself, after having sentaway Julie?"But Henriette was very angry, and replied:"Well, at any rate, he must get over the difficulty himself, for I willnot help him," she replied. "Let him settle it!" And she went into herown room, quite forgetting that her child had not had anything to eat.Limousin immediately set to work to help his friend. He picked up thebroken glasses which strewed the table and took them out, replaced theplates and knives and forks, and put the child into his high chair, whileParent went to look for the chambermaid to wait at table. The girl camein, in great astonishment, as she had heard nothing in George's room,where she had been working. She soon, however, brought in the soup, aburnt leg of mutton, and mashed potatoes.Parent sat by the side of the child, very much upset and distressed atall that had happened. He gave the boy his dinner, and endeavored to eatsomething himself, but he could only swallow with an effort, as histhroat felt paralyzed. By degrees he was seized with an insane desire tolook at Limousin, who was sitting opposite to him, making bread pellets,to see whether George was like him, but he did not venture to raise hiseyes for some time. At last, however, he made up his mind to do so, andgave a quick, sharp look at the face which he knew so well, although healmost fancied that he had never examined it carefully. It looked sodifferent to what he had imagined. From time to time he looked atLimousin, trying to recognize a likeness in the smallest lines of hisface, in the slightest features, and then he looked at his son, under thepretext of feeding him.Two words were sounding in his ears: "His father! his father! hisfather!" They buzzed in his temples at every beat of his heart. Yes,that man, that tranquil man who was sitting on the other side of thetable, was, perhaps, the father of his son, of George, of his littleGeorge. Parent left off eating; he could not swallow any more. Aterrible pain, one of those attacks of pain which make men scream, rollon the ground, and bite the furniture, was tearing at his entrails, andhe felt inclined to take a knife and plunge it into his stomach.He started when he heard the door open. His wife came in. "I amhungry," she said; "are not you, Limousin?"He hesitated a little, and then said: "Yes, I am, upon my word."She had the leg of mutton brought in again. Parent asked himself"Have they had dinner? Or are they late because they have had a lovers'meeting?"They both ate with a very good appetite. Henriette was very calm, butlaughed and joked. Her husband watched her furtively. She had on a pinkteagown trimmed with white lace, and her fair head, her white neck andher plump hands stood out from that coquettish and perfumed dress asthough it were a sea shell edged with foam.What fun they must be making of him, if he had been their dupe since thefirst day! Was it possible to make a fool of a man, of a worthy man,because his father had left him a little money? Why could one not seeinto people's souls? How was it that nothing revealed to upright heartsthe deceits of infamous hearts? How was it that voices had the samesound for adoring as for lying? Why was a false, deceptive look the sameas a sincere one? And he watched them, waiting to catch a gesture, aword, an intonation. Then suddenly he thought: "I will surprise themthis evening," and he said:"My dear, as I have dismissed Julie, I will see about getting anothergirl this very day. I will go at once to procure one by to-morrowmorning, so I may not be in until late.""Very well," she replied; "go. I shall not stir from here. Limousinwill keep me company. We will wait for you." Then, turning to the maid,she said: "You had better put George to bed, and then you can clear awayand go up to your room."Parent had got up; he was unsteady on his legs, dazed and bewildered, andsaying, "I shall see you again later on," he went out, holding on to thewall, for the floor seemed to roll like a ship. George had been carriedout by his nurse, while Henriette and Limousin went into the drawing-room.As soon as the door was shut, he said: "You must be mad, surely, totorment your husband as you do?"She immediately turned on him: "Ah! Do you know that I think the habityou have got into lately, of looking upon Parent as a martyr, is veryunpleasant?"Limousin threw himself into an easy-chair and crossed his legs. "I amnot setting him up as a martyr in the least, but I think that, situatedas we are, it is ridiculous to defy this man as you do, from morning tillnight."She took a cigarette from the mantelpiece, lighted it, and replied: "ButI do not defy him; quite the contrary. Only he irritates me by hisstupidity, and I treat him as he deserves."Limousin continued impatiently: "What you are doing is very foolish! Iam only asking you to treat your husband gently, because we both of usrequire him to trust us. I think that you ought to see that."They were close together: he, tall, dark, with long whiskers and therather vulgar manners of a good-looking man who is very well satisfiedwith himself; she, small, fair, and pink, a little Parisian, born in theback room of a shop, half cocotte and half bourgeoise, brought up toentice customers to the store by her glances, and married, inconsequence, to a simple, unsophisticated man, who saw her outside thedoor every morning when he went out and every evening when he came home."But do you not understand; you great booby," she said, "that I hate himjust because he married me, because he bought me, in fact; becauseeverything that he says and does, everything that he thinks, acts on mynerves? He exasperates me every moment by his stupidity, which you callhis kindness; by his dullness, which you call his confidence, and then,above all, because he is my husband, instead of you. I feel him betweenus, although he does not interfere with us much. And then---and then!No, it is, after all, too idiotic of him not to guess anything! I wishhe would, at any rate, be a little jealous. There are moments when Ifeel inclined to say to him: 'Do you not see, you stupid creature, thatPaul is my lover?'"It is quite incomprehensible that you cannot understand how hateful heis to me, how he irritates me. You always seem to like him, and youshake hands with him cordially. Men are very extraordinary at times.""One must know how to dissimulate, my dear.""It is no question of dissimulation, but of feeling. One might thinkthat, when you men deceive one another, you like each other better onthat account, while we women hate a man from the moment that we havebetrayed him.""I do not see why one should hate an excellent fellow because one isfriendly with his wife.""You do not see it? You do not see it? You all of you are wanting inrefinement of feeling. However, that is one of those things which onefeels and cannot express. And then, moreover, one ought not. No, youwould not understand; it is quite useless! You men have no delicacy offeeling."And smiling, with the gentle contempt of an impure woman, she put bothher hands on his shoulders and held up her lips to him. He stooped downand clasped her closely in his arms, and their lips met. And as theystood in front of the mantel mirror, another couple exactly like themembraced behind the clock.They had heard nothing, neither the noise of the key nor the creaking ofthe door, but suddenly Henriette, with a loud cry, pushed Limousin awaywith both her arms, and they saw Parent looking at them, livid with rage,without his shoes on and his hat over his forehead. He looked at each,one after the other, with a quick glance of his eyes and without movinghis head. He appeared beside himself. Then, without saying a word, hethrew himself on Limousin, seized him as if he were going to stranglehim, and flung him into the opposite corner of the room so violently thatthe other lost his balance, and, beating the air with his hand, struckhis head violently against the wall.When Henriette saw that her husband was going to murder her lover, shethrew herself on Parent, seized him by the neck, and digging her tendelicate, rosy fingers into his neck, she squeezed him so tightly, withall the vigor of a desperate woman, that the blood spurted out under hernails, and she bit his shoulder, as if she wished to tear it with herteeth. Parent, half-strangled and choking, loosened his hold onLimousin, in order to shake off his wife, who was hanging to his neck.Putting his arms round her waist, he flung her also to the other end ofthe drawing-room.Then, as his passion was short-lived, like that of most good-temperedmen, and his strength was soon exhausted, he remained standing betweenthe two, panting, worn out, not knowing what to do next. His brutal furyhad expended itself in that effort, like the froth of a bottle ofchampagne, and his unwonted energy ended in a gasping for breath. Assoon as he could speak, however, he said:"Go away--both of you--immediately! Go away!"Limousin remained motionless in his corner, against the wall, toostartled to understand anything as yet, too frightened to move a finger;while Henriette, with her hands resting on a small, round table, her headbent forward, her hair hanging down, the bodice of her dress unfastened,waited like a wild animal which is about to spring. Parent continued ina stronger voice: "Go away immediately. Get out of the house!"His wife, however, seeing that he had got over his first exasperationgrew bolder, drew herself up, took two steps toward him, and, grownalmost insolent, she said: "Have you lost your head? What is the matterwith you? What is the meaning of this unjustifiable violence?"But he turned toward her, and raising his fist to strike her, hestammered out: "Oh--oh--this is too much, too much! I heard everything!Everything--do you understand? Everything! You wretch--you wretch! Youare two wretches! Get out of the house, both of you! Immediately, or Ishall kill you! Leave the house!"She saw that it was all over, and that he knew everything; that she couldnot prove her innocence, and that she must comply. But all her impudencehad returned to her, and her hatred for the man, which was aggravatednow, drove her to audacity, made her feel the need of bravado, and ofdefying him, and she said in a clear voice: "Come, Limousin; as he isgoing to turn me out of doors, I will go to your lodgings with you."But Limousin did not move, and Parent, in a fresh access of rage, criedout: "Go, will you? Go, you wretches! Or else--or else----" He seized achair and whirled it over his head.Henriette walked quickly across the room, took her lover by the arm,dragged him from the wall, to which he appeared fixed, and led him towardthe door, saying: "Do come, my friend--you see that the man is mad. Docome!"As she went out she turned round to her husband, trying to think ofsomething that she could do, something that she could invent to wound himto the heart as she left the house, and an idea struck her, one of thosevenomous, deadly ideas in which all a woman's perfidy shows itself, andshe said resolutely: "I am going to take my child with me."Parent was stupefied, and stammered: "Your--your--child? You dare totalk of your child? You venture--you venture to ask for your child--after-after--Oh, oh, that is too much! Go, you vile creature! Go!"She went up to him again, almost smiling, almost avenged already, anddefying him, standing close to him, and face to face, she said: "I wantmy child, and you have no right to keep him, because he is not yours--doyou understand? He is not yours! He is Limousin's!"And Parent cried out in bewilderment: "You lie--you lie--worthlesswoman!"But she continued: "You fool! Everybody knows it except you. I tellyou, this is his father. You need only look at him to see it."Parent staggered backward, and then he suddenly turned round, took acandle, and rushed into the next room; returning almost immediately,carrying little George wrapped up in his bedclothes. The child, who hadbeen suddenly awakened, was crying from fright. Parent threw him intohis wife's arms, and then, without speaking, he pushed her roughly outtoward the stairs, where Limousin was waiting, from motives of prudence.Then he shut the door again, double-locked and bolted it, but hadscarcely got back into the drawing-room when he fell to the floor at fulllength.Parent lived alone, quite alone. During the five weeks that followedtheir separation, the feeling of surprise at his new life prevented himfrom thinking much. He had resumed his bachelor life, his habits oflounging, about, and took his meals at a restaurant, as he had doneformerly. As he wished to avoid any scandal, he made his wife anallowance, which was arranged by their lawyers. By degrees, however, thethought of the child began to haunt him. Often, when he was at homealone at night, he suddenly thought he heard George calling out "Papa,"and his heart would begin to beat, and he would get up quickly and openthe door, to see whether, by chance, the child might have returned, asdogs or pigeons do. Why should a child have less instinct than ananimal? On finding that he was mistaken, he would sit down in hisarmchair again and think of the boy. He would think of him for hours andwhole days. It was not only a moral, but still more a physicalobsession, a nervous longing to kiss him, to hold and fondle him, to takehim on his knees and dance him. He felt the child's little arms aroundhis neck, his little mouth pressing a kiss on his beard, his soft hairtickling his cheeks, and the remembrance of all those childish ways madehim suffer as a man might for some beloved woman who has left him.Twenty or a hundred times a day he asked himself the question whether hewas or was not George's father, and almost before he was in bed everynight he recommenced the same series of despairing questionings.He especially dreaded the darkness of the evening, the melancholy feelingof the twilight. Then a flood of sorrow invaded his heart, a torrent ofdespair which seemed to overwhelm him and drive him mad. He was asafraid of his own thoughts as men are of criminals, and he fled beforethem as one does from wild beasts. Above all things, he feared hisempty, dark, horrible dwelling and the deserted streets, in which, hereand there, a gas lamp flickered, where the isolated foot passenger whomone hears in the distance seems to be a night prowler, and makes one walkfaster or slower, according to whether he is coming toward you orfollowing you.And in spite of himself, and by instinct, Parent went in the direction ofthe broad, well-lighted, populous streets. The light and the crowdattracted him, occupied his mind and distracted his thoughts, and when hewas tired of walking aimlessly about among the moving crowd, when he sawthe foot passengers becoming more scarce and the pavements less crowded,the fear of solitude and silence drove him into some large cafe full ofdrinkers and of light. He went there as flies go to a candle, and hewould sit down at one of the little round tables and ask for a "bock,"which he would drink slowly, feeling uneasy every time a customer got upto go. He would have liked to take him by the arm, hold him back, andbeg him to stay a little longer, so much did he dread the time when thewaiter should come up to him and say sharply: "Come, monsieur, it isclosing time!"He thus got into the habit of going to the beer houses, where thecontinual elbowing of the drinkers brings you in contact with a familiarand silent public, where the heavy clouds of tobacco smoke lulldisquietude, while the heavy beer dulls the mind and calms the heart.He almost lived there. He was scarcely up before he went there to findpeople to distract his glances and his thoughts, and soon, as he felt toolazy to move, he took his meals there.After every meal, during more than an hour, he sipped three or four smallglasses of brandy, which stupefied him by degrees, and then his headdrooped on his chest, he shut his eyes, and went to sleep. Then,awaking, he raised himself on the red velvet seat, straightened hiswaistcoat, pulled down his cuffs, and took up the newspapers again,though he had already seen them in the morning, and read them all throughagain, from beginning to end. Between four and five o'clock he went fora walk on the boulevards, to get a little fresh air, as he used to say,and then came back to the seat which had been reserved for him, and askedfor his absinthe. He would talk to the regular customers whoseacquaintance he had made. They discussed the news of the day andpolitical events, and that carried him on till dinner time; and he spentthe evening as he had the afternoon, until it was time to close. Thatwas a terible moment for him when he was obliged to go out into the dark,into his empty room full of dreadful recollections, of horrible thoughts,and of mental agony. He no longer saw any of his old friends, none ofhis relatives, nobody who might remind him of his past life. But as hisapartments were a hell to him, he took a room in a large hotel, a goodroom on the ground floor, so as to see the passers-by. He was no longeralone in that great building. He felt people swarming round him, heheard voices in the adjoining rooms, and when his former sufferingstormented him too much at the sight of his bed, which was turned down,and of his solitary fireplace, he went out into the wide passages andwalked up and down them like a sentinel, before all the closed doors, andlooked sadly at the shoes standing in couples outside them, women'slittle boots by the side of men's thick ones, and he thought that, nodoubt, all these people were happy, and were sleeping in their warm beds.Five years passed thus; five miserable years. But one day, when he wastaking his usual walk between the Madeleine and the Rue Drouot, hesuddenly saw a lady whose bearing struck him. A tall gentleman and achild were with her, and all three were walking in front of him. Heasked himself where he had seen them before, when suddenly he recognizeda movement of her hand; it was his wife, his wife with Limousin and hischild, his little George.His heart beat as if it would suffocate him, but he did not stop, for hewished to see them, and he followed them. They looked like a family ofthe better middle class. Henriette was leaning on Paul's arm, andspeaking to him in a low voice, and looking at him sideways occasionally.Parent got a side view of her and recognized her pretty features, themovements of her lips, her smile, and her coaxing glances. But the childchiefly took up his attention. How tall and strong he was! Parent couldnot see his face, but only his long, fair curls. That tall boy with barelegs, who was walking by his mother's side like a little man, was George.He saw them suddenly, all three, as they stopped in front of a shop.Limousin had grown very gray, had aged and was thinner; his wife, on thecontrary, was as young looking as ever, and had grown stouter. George hewould not have recognized, he was so different from what he had beenformerly.They went on again and Parent followed them. He walked on quickly,passed them, and then turned round, so as to meet them face to face. Ashe passed the child he felt a mad longing to take him into his arms andrun off with him, and he knocked against him as if by accident. The boyturned round and looked at the clumsy man angrily, and Parent hurriedaway, shocked, hurt, and pursued by that look. He went off like a thief,seized with a horrible fear lest he should have been seen and recognizedby his wife and her lover. He went to his cafe without stopping, andfell breathless into his chair. That evening he drank three absinthes.For four months he felt the pain of that meeting in his heart. Everynight he saw the three again, happy and tranquil, father, mother, andchild walking on the boulevard before going in to dinner, and that new.vision effaced the old one. It was another matter, another hallucinationnow, and also a fresh pain. Little George, his little George, the childhe had so much loved and so often kissed, disappeared in the fardistance, and he saw a new one, like a brother of the first, a little boywith bare legs, who did not know him! He suffered terribly at thatthought. The child's love was dead; there was no bond between them; thechild would not have held out his arms when he saw him. He had evenlooked at him angrily.Then, by degrees he grew calmer, his mental torture diminished, the imagethat had appeared to his eyes and which haunted his nights became moreindistinct and less frequent. He began once more to live nearly likeeverybody else, like all those idle people who drink beer off marble-topped tables and wear out their clothes on the threadbare velvet of thecouches.He grew old amid the smoke from pipes, lost his hair under the gaslights, looked upon his weekly bath, on his fortnightly visit to thebarber's to have his hair cut, and on the purchase of a new coat or hatas an event. When he got to his cafe in a new hat he would look athimself in the glass for a long time before sitting down, and take it offand put it on again several times, and at last ask his friend, the ladyat the bar, who was watching him with interest, whether she thought itsuited him.Two or three times a year he went to the theatre, and in the summer hesometimes spent his evenings at one of the open-air concerts in theChamps Elysees. And so the years followed each other slow, monotonous,and short, because they were quite uneventful.He very rarely now thought of the dreadful drama which had wrecked hislife; for twenty years had passed since that terrible evening. But thelife he had led since then had worn him out. The landlord of his cafewould often say to him: "You ought to pull yourself together a little,Monsieur Parent; you should get some fresh air and go into the country.I assure you that you have changed very much within the last few months."And when his customer had gone out be used to say to the barmaid: "Thatpoor Monsieur Parent is booked for another world; it is bad never to getout of Paris. Advise him to go out of town for a day occasionally; hehas confidence in you. Summer will soon be here; that will put himstraight."And she, full of pity and kindness for such a regular customer, said toParent every day: "Come, monsieur, make up your mind to get a littlefresh air. It is so charming in the country when the weather is fine.Oh, if I could, I would spend my life there!"By degrees he was seized with a vague desire to go just once and seewhether it was really as pleasant there as she said, outside the walls ofthe great city. One morning he said to her:"Do you know where one can get a good luncheon in the neighborhood ofParis?""Go to the Terrace at Saint-Germain; it is delightful there!"He had been there formerly, just when he became engaged. He made up hismind to go there again, and he chose a Sunday, for no special reason, butmerely because people generally do go out on Sundays, even when they havenothing to do all the week; and so one Sunday morning he went to Saint-Germain. He felt low-spirited and vexed at having yielded to that newlonging, and at having broken through his usual habits. He was thirsty;he would have liked to get out at every station and sit down in the cafewhich he saw outside and drink a "bock" or two, and then take the firsttrain back to Paris. The journey seemed very long to him. He couldremain sitting for whole days, as long as he had the same motionlessobjects before his eyes, but he found it very trying and fatiguing toremain sitting while he was being whirled along, and to see the wholecountry fly by, while he himself was motionless.However, he found the Seine interesting every time he crossed it. Underthe bridge at Chatou he saw some small boats going at great speed underthe vigorous strokes of the bare-armed oarsmen, and he thought: "Thereare some fellows who are certainly enjoying themselves!" The trainentered the tunnel just before you get to the station at Saint-Germain,and presently stopped at the platform. Parent got out, and walkedslowly, for he already felt tired, toward the Terrace, with his handsbehind his back, and when he got to the iron balustrade, stopped to lookat the distant horizon. The immense plain spread out before him vast asthe sea, green and studded with large villages, almost as populous astowns. The sun bathed the whole landscape in its full, warm light. TheSeine wound like an endless serpent through the plain, flowed round thevillages and along the slopes. Parent inhaled the warm breeze, whichseemed to make his heart young again, to enliven his spirits, and tovivify his blood, and said to himself:"Why, it is delightful here."Then he went on a few steps, and stopped again to look about him. Theutter misery of his existence seemed to be brought into full relief bythe intense light which inundated the landscape. He saw his twenty yearsof cafe life--dull, monotonous, heartbreaking. He might have traveled asothers did, have gone among foreigners, to unknown countries beyond thesea, have interested himself somewhat in everything which other men arepassionately devoted to, in arts and science; he might have enjoyed lifein a thousand forms, that mysterious life which is either charming orpainful, constantly changing, always inexplicable and strange. Now,however, it was too late. He would go on drinking "bock" after "bock"until he died, without any family, without friends, without hope, withoutany curiosity about anything, and he was seized with a feeling of miseryand a wish to run away, to hide himself in Paris, in his cafe and hislethargy! All the thoughts, all the dreams, all the desires which aredormant in the slough of stagnating hearts had reawakened, brought tolife by those rays of sunlight on the plain.Parent felt that if he were to remain there any longer he should lose hisreason, and he made haste to get to the Pavilion Henri IV for lunch, totry and forget his troubles under--the influence of wine and alcohol, andat any rate to have some one to speak to.He took a small table in one of the arbors, from which one can see allthe surrounding country, ordered his lunch, and asked to be served atonce. Then some more people arrived and sat down at tables near him. Hefelt more comfortable; he was no longer alone. Three persons were eatingluncheon near him. He looked at them two or three times without seeingthem clearly, as one looks at total strangers. Suddenly a woman's voicesent a shiver through him which seemed to penetrate to his very marrow."George," it said, "will you carve the chicken?"And another voice replied: "Yes, mamma."Parent looked up, and he understood; he guessed immediately who thosepeople were! He should certainly not have known them again. His wifehad grown quite white and very stout, an elderly, serious, respectablelady, and she held her head forward as she ate for fear of spotting herdress, although she had a table napkin tucked under her chin. George hadbecome a man. He had a slight beard, that uneven and almost colorlessbeard which adorns the cheeks of youths. He wore a high hat, a whitewaistcoat, and a monocle, because it looked swell, no doubt. Parentlooked at him in astonishment. Was that George, his son? No, he did notknow that young man; there could be nothing in common between them.Limousin had his back to him, and was eating; with his shoulders ratherbent.All three of them seemed happy and satisfied; they came and took luncheonin the country at well-known restaurants. They had had a calm andpleasant existence, a family existence in a warm and comfortable house,filled with all those trifles which make life agreeable, with affection,with all those tender words which people exchange continually when theylove each other. They had lived thus, thanks to him, Parent, on hismoney, after having deceived him, robbed him, ruined him! They hadcondemned him, the innocent, simple-minded, jovial man, to all themiseries of solitude, to that abominable life which he had led, betweenthe pavement and a bar-room, to every mental torture and every physicalmisery! They had made him a useless, aimless being, a waif in the world,a poor old man without any pleasures, any prospects, expecting nothingfrom anybody or anything. For him, the world was empty, because he lovednothing in the world. He might go among other nations, or go about thestreets, go into all the houses in Paris, open every room, but he wouldnot find inside any door the beloved face, the face of wife or childwhich smiles when it sees you. This idea worked upon him more than anyother, the idea of a door which one opens, to see and to embrace somebodybehind it.And that was the fault of those three wretches! The fault of thatworthless woman, of that infamous friend, and of that tall, light-hairedlad who put on insolent airs. Now he felt as angry with the child as hedid with the other two. Was he not Limousin's son? Would Limousin havekept him and loved him otherwise? Would not Limousin very quickly havegot rid of the mother and of the child if he had not felt sure that itwas his, positively his? Does anybody bring up other people's children?And now they were there, quite close to him, those three who had made himsuffer so much.Parent looked at them, irritated and excited at the recollection of allhis sufferings and of his despair, and was especially exasperated attheir placid and satisfied looks. He felt inclined to kill them, tothrow his siphon of Seltzer water at them, to split open Limousin's headas he every moment bent it over his plate, raising it again immediately.He would have his revenge now, on the spot, as he had them under hishand. But how? He tried to think of some means, he pictured suchdreadful things as one reads of in the newspapers occasionally, but couldnot hit on anything practical. And he went on drinking to excitehimself, to give himself courage not to allow such an opportunity toescape him, as he might never have another.Suddenly an idea struck him, a terrible idea; and he left off drinking tomature it. He smiled as he murmured: "I have them, I have them! We willsee; we will see!"They finished their luncheon slowly, conversing with perfect unconcern.Parent could not hear what they were saying, but he saw their quietgestures. His wife's face especially exasperated him. She had assumed ahaughty air, the air of a comfortable, devout woman, of anunapproachable, devout woman, sheathed in principles, iron-clad invirtue. They paid their bill and got up from table. Parent then noticedLimousin. He might have been taken for a retired diplomat, for he lookeda man of great importance, with his soft white whiskers, the tips ofwhich touched his coat collar.They walked away. Parent rose and followed them. First they went up anddown the terrace, and calmly admired the landscape, and then they went.into the forest. Parent followed them at a distance, hiding himself soas not to excite their suspicion too soon.Parent came up to them by degrees, breathing hard with emotion andfatigue, for he was unused to walking now. He soon came up to them, butwas seized with fear, an inexplicable fear, and he passed them, so as toturn round and meet them face to face. He walked on, his heart beating,feeling that they were just behind him now, and he said to himself:"Come, now is the time. Courage! courage! Now is the moment!"He turned round. They were all three sitting on the grass, at the footof a huge tree, and were still chatting. He made up his mind, and walkedback rapidly; stopping in front of them in the middle of tile road, hesaid abruptly, in a voice broken by emotion:"It is I! Here I am! I suppose you did not expect me?"They all three stared at this man, who seemed to be insane.He continued:"One would suppose that you did not know me again. Just look at me! Iam Parent, Henri Parent. You thought it was all over, and that you wouldnever see me again. Ah! but here I am once more, you see, and now wewill have an explanation."Henriette, terrified, hid her face in her hands, murmuring: "Oh! Goodheavens!"Seeing this stranger, who seemed to be threatening his mother, Georgesprang up, ready to seize him by the collar. Limousin, thunderstruck,looked in horror at this apparition, who, after gasping for breath,continued:"So now we will have an explanation; the proper moment has come! Ah!you deceived me, you condemned me to the life of a convict, and youthought that I should never catch you!"The young man took him by the shoulders and pushed him back."Are you mad?" he asked. "What do you want? Go on your way immediately,or I shall give you a thrashing!""What do I want?" replied Parent. "I want to tell you who these peopleare."George, however, was in a rage, and shook him; and was even going tostrike him."Let me go," said Parent. "I am your father. There, see whether theyrecognize me now, the wretches!"The young man, thunderstruck, unclenched his fists and turned toward hismother. Parent, as soon as he was released, approached her."Well," he said, "tell him yourself who I am! Tell him that my name isHenri Parent, that I am his father because his name is George Parent,because you are my wife, because you are all three living on my money, onthe allowance of ten thousand francs which I have made you since I droveyou out of my house. Will you tell him also why I drove you out?Because I surprised you with this beggar, this wretch, your lover! Tellhim what I was, an honorable man, whom you married for money, and whomyou deceived from the very first day. Tell him who you are, and who Iam----"He stammered and gasped for breath in his rage. The woman exclaimed in aheartrending voice:"Paul, Paul, stop him; make him be quiet! Do not let him say this beforemy son!"Limousin had also risen to his feet. He said in a very low voice:"Hold your tongue! Hold your tongue! Do you understand what you aredoing?""I quite know what I am doing," resumed Parent, "and that is not all.There is one thing that I will know, something that has tormented me fortwenty years." Then, turning to George, who was leaning against a treein consternation, he said:"Listen to me. When she left my house she thought it was not enough tohave deceived me, but she also wanted to drive me to despair. You weremy only consolation, and she took you with her, swearing that I was notyour father, but, that he was your father. Was she lying? I do notknow. I have been asking myself the question for the last twenty years."He went close up to her, tragic and terrible, and, pulling away herhands, with which she had covered her face, he continued:"Well, now! I call upon you to tell me which of us two is the father ofthis young man; he or I, your husband or your lover. Come! Come! tellus."Limousin rushed at him. Parent pushed him back, and, sneering in hisfury, he said: "Ah! you are brave now! You are braver than you werethat day when you ran downstairs because you thought I was going tomurder you. Very well! If she will not reply, tell me yourself. Youought to know as well as she. Tell me, are you this young fellow'sfather? Come! Come! Tell me!"He turned to his wife again. "If you will not tell me, at any rate tellyour son. He is a man, now, and he has the right to know who his fatheris. I do not know, and I never did know, never, never! I cannot tellyou, my boy."He seemed to be losing his senses; his voice grew shrill and he workedhis arms about as if he had an epileptic 'fit."Come! . . . Give me an answer. She does not know . . . I willmake a bet that she does not know . . . No . . . she does not know,by Jove! Ha! ha! ha! Nobody knows . . . nobody . . . How can oneknow such things?You will not know either, my boy, you will not know any more than I do. . . never. . . . Look here . . . Ask her you will find thatshe does not know . . . I do not know either . . . nor does he, nordo you, nobody knows. You can choose . . . You can choose . . .yes, you can choose him or me. . . Choose.Good evening . . . It is all over. If she makes up her mind to tellyou, you will come and let me know, will you not? I am living at theHotel des Continents . . . I should be glad to know . . . Goodevening . . . I hope you will enjoy yourselves very much . . ."And he went away gesticulating, talking to himself under the tall trees,in the quiet, the cool air, which was full of the fragrance of growingplants. He did not turn round to look at them, but went straight on,walking under the stimulus of his rage, under a storm of passion, withthat one fixed idea in his mind. All at once he found himself outsidethe station. A train was about to start and he got in. During thejourney his anger calmed down, he regained his senses and returned toParis, astonished at his own boldness, full of aches and pains as if hehad broken some bones. Nevertheless, he went to have a "bock" at hisbrewery.When she saw him come in, Mademoiselle Zoe asked in surprise: "What!back already? are you tired?""Yes--yes, I am tired . . . very tired . . . You know, when one isnot used to going out. . . I've had enough of it. I shall not go intothe country again. It would have been better to have stayed here. Forthe future, I shall not stir out."She could not persuade him to tell her about his little excursion, muchas she wished to.For the first time in his life he got thoroughly drunk that night, andhad to be carried home.

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