II
Parent lived alone, entirely alone. During the first few weeks following his separation, the strangeness of his new life prevented him from thinking much. He had resumed his bachelor life, his loafing habits, and had his meals at a restaurant, as in the old days. Anxious to avoid scandal, he made his wife an allowance regulated by their lawyers. But, little by little, the remembrance of the child began to haunt his thoughts. Often, when he was alone at home in the evenings, he would imagine that he suddenly heard Georges cry “Daddy.” In a moment his heart would begin to beat and he would promptly rise and open the front door, to see if by any chance the little boy had returned. Yes, he might have come home again as dogs and pigeons do. Why should a child have less natural instinct than an animal?
Then, realising his error, he would return and sit down in his armchair, and think of the child. He thought of him for whole hours, whole days. It was no mere mental obsession, but a yet stranger physical obsession as well, a need of the senses and the nerves to embrace him, hold him, feel him, take him on his knee and dandle him. He grew frantic at the feverish remembrance of past caresses. He felt the little arms clasping his neck, the little mouth pressing a great kiss on his beard, the little hair tickling his cheek. The longing for these sweet vanished endearments, for the delicate, warm, dainty skin held to his lips, maddened him like the desire for a woman beloved and departed.
He would suddenly burst into tears in the street as he thought that he might have had fat little Georgy trotting along beside him on his little legs, as in the old days when he took him for walks. Then he would go home and sob till evening, his head between his hands.
Twenty times, a hundred times a day, he asked himself this question: “Was he, or was he not, Georges’s father?” But it was chiefly at night that he gave himself up to interminable speculation on this subject. As soon as he was in bed, he began, every evening, the same series of desperate arguments.
After his wife’s departure he had at first had no doubts: the child was assuredly Limousin’s. Then, little by little, he began to hesitate again. Henriette’s statement certainly had no value. She had defied him in an attempt to make him desperate. When he came coolly to weigh the pros and the cons, there was many a chance that she was lying.
Limousin alone, perhaps, could have told the truth. But how was he to know it, to question him, to get him to confess?
Sometimes Parent would get up in the middle of the night, resolved to go and find Limousin, to beseech him, to offer him anything he wanted, if he would only put an end to his abominable anguish. Then he would return hopelessly to bed, reflecting that doubtless the lover would lie too! It was positively certain that he would lie in order to hinder the real father from taking back his child.
Then what was he to do? Nothing!
He was heartbroken that he had precipitated events like this, that he had not reflected or been more patient, had not had the sense to wait and dissemble for a month or two, until his own eyes might have informed him. He ought to have pretended to have no suspicions, and have left them calmly to betray themselves. It would have been enough for him to have seen the other man kiss the child to guess, to understand. A friend’s kiss is not the same as a father’s. He could have spied on them from behind doors. Why had he not thought of it? If Limousin, left alone with Georges, had not promptly seized him, clasped him in his arms, and kissed him passionately, if he had left him to play without taking any interest in him, no hesitation would have been possible; it would have meant that he was not the father, did not believe himself or feel himself to be the father.
With the result that Parent could have turned out the mother and kept his son, and he would have been happy, perfectly happy.
He would go back to bed, perspiring and tormented, ransacking his memory for Limousin’s behaviour with the child. But he could remember nothing, absolutely nothing, no gesture, no glance, no word, no suspicious caress. Nor did the mother take any notice of her child. If he had been the fruit of her lover, doubtless she would have loved him more.
He had been separated from his son, then, out of revenge, out of cruelty, to punish him for having surprised them.
He would make up his mind to go at dawn and ask the magistrate to give him the right to claim Georgy.
But he had scarcely formed this resolve when he would feel himself overcome by a certainty of the contrary. From the moment that Limousin had been Henriette’s lover, her beloved lover from the first day, she must have given herself to him with the passionate ardent abandon that makes a woman a mother. And was not the cold reserve which she had always brought to her intimate relations with himself an obstacle against the likelihood of his having given her a child?
So he was about to claim, take home, and perpetually cherish another man’s child? He could never look at him, kiss him, hear him say “daddy” without being struck and torn by the thought: “He is not my son at all.” He was about to condemn himself for all time to this torture, this miserable existence! No, better to dwell alone, live alone, grow old alone, and die alone!
Every day and every night were renewed these abominable uncertainties and sufferings that nothing could assuage or end. Above all he dreaded the darkness of the falling dusk, the melancholy of twilight. It was then that there fell upon his heart with the darkness a shower of grief, a flood of despair, drowning him, maddening him. He was afraid of his thoughts, as a man fears criminals, and he fled before them like a hunted animal. Above all he dreaded his empty dwelling, so dark and dreadful, and the streets, also deserted, where here and there a gas-lamp glimmers, and the lonely passerby heard in the distance is like a prowling marauder and your pace quickens or slackens as he follows you or comes towards you.
In spite of himself, Parent instinctively sought out the main streets, well lighted and populous. The lights and the crowds attracted him, occupied his mind and dulled his senses. When he was weary of wandering idly through the throng, when the passersby became fewer and the pavements emptier, the terrors of solitude and silence drove him to some large café full of customers and glare. He would rush to it like a moth to the flame, sit down at a little round table, and order a bock. He would drink it slowly, disturbed in mind by every customer who rose to leave. He would have liked to take him by the arm, to hold him back, to beg him to stay a little longer, so afraid was he of the moment when the waiter would stand in front of him and remark with a wrathful air: “Closing time, Monsieur.”
For, every evening, he was the last to go. He saw the tables carried inside, and, one by one, the gas-jets turned down, all except two, his own and the one at the counter. Miserably he would watch the cashier count the money and lock it up in the drawer; and he would depart, thrust out by the staff, who would mutter: “There’s a limpet for you; anyone might think he had nowhere to sleep.”
And as soon as he found himself in the street once more, he would begin to think of little Georges again, ransacking his tortured brain to discover whether he was or was not the father of his child.
In this way he caught the beerhouse habit; there the perpetual jostling of the drinkers keeps you familiar but silent company, and the heavy smoke of the pipes quiets uneasy thoughts, while the heavy beer dulls the mind and calms the heart.
He lived in these places. As soon as he got up, he went off thither to find his eyes and his thoughts. Then, out of laziness, he soon took to having his meals there. At about midday he would rap his saucer on the marble table, and the waiter would speedily bring a plate, a glass, a napkin, and that day’s lunch. As soon as he had finished eating, he would slowly drink his coffee, his eyes fixed on the decanter of brandy which would soon give him an hour of blessed sottishness. First of all he would moisten his lips with the brandy, as though to take the taste of it, merely culling the flavour of the liquor with the tip of his tongue. Then he would pour it into his mouth, drop by drop, letting his head fall back; he would let the strong liquor run slowly over his palate, over his gums, over the membrane of his cheeks, mingling it with the clear saliva which flowed freely at its contact. Then, refreshed by the mixture, he swallowed it unctuously, feeling it run all the way down his throat to the pit of his stomach.
After every meal he would spend more than an hour in sipping thus three or four glasses, which numbed his brain little by little. Then he would sink his head on to his chest, close his eyes, and doze. He would wake up in the middle of the afternoon and promptly reach for the bock which the waiter had set before him while he was asleep; then, having drunk it, he would sit up straight on the red velvet seat, pull up his trousers and pull down his waistcoat so as to cover up the white line which had appeared between them, shake his coat collar, pull down his cuffs, and then would take up the papers he had already read in the morning. He went through them again from the first line to the last, including the advertisements, the “situations wanted” column, the personal column, the stock exchange news and the theatre programs.
Between four and six he would go for a walk along the boulevards, to take the air, as he used to say; then he would come back to the seat which had been kept for him and order his absinth.
Then he would chat with the regular customers whose acquaintance he had made. They would comment on the topics of the day, the news items and the political events; this led up to dinner. The evening passed like the afternoon, until closing time. This was for him the terrible moment when he had to go home in the dark to his empty room, full of terrible memories, horrible thoughts and agonising griefs. He no longer saw any of his old friends, any of his relations, anyone who might remind him of his past life.
But as his lodgings became a hell to him, he took a room in a big hotel, a large room on the ground floor, so that he could see the passersby. He was no longer alone in this vast public dwelling-place; he felt people swarming round him; he heard voices behind the partitions; and when his old grief harassed him too cruelly, between his bed with the sheet drawn back and his lonely fireside, he would go out into the broad passages and walk up and down like a sentry, past all the closed doors, looking sadly at the pairs of boots in couples before each of them, the dainty boots of the women squatting beside the strong ones of the men; and he would reflect that all these people were happy, no doubt, and sleeping lovingly, side by side or in each other’s arms, in the warmth of their beds.
Five years went by in this fashion, five mournful years with no events but an occasional two hours of bought love.
One day, as he was going for his customary walk between the Madeleine and the Rue Drouot, he suddenly noticed a woman whose bearing struck him. A tall man and a child were with her. All three were walking in front of him. “Where have I seen those people?” he wondered, and all of a sudden he recognised a gesture of the hand: it was his wife, his wife with Limousin and with his child, his little Georges.
His heart beat so that he was almost stifled, but he did not stop; he wanted to see them, and he followed them. Anyone would have said that they were a family party, a decent family of decent middle-class people. Henriette was leaning on Paul’s arm, talking softly to him and occasionally looking at him from beside him. At these times Parent saw her profile, and recognised the graceful line of her face, the movements of her mouth, her smile, and the caress of her eyes. The child in particular drew his attention. How big he was and strong! Parent could not see his face, but only the long fair hair which fell upon his neck in curling locks. It was Georges, this tall bare-legged boy walking like a little man beside his mother.
As they stopped in front of a shop, he suddenly saw all three. Limousin had gone grey, older, and thinner; his wife, on the contrary, was younger than ever, and had put on flesh; Georges had become unrecognisable, so different from the old days!
They set off again. Parent followed them once more, then hurried past them in order to turn back and see their faces at close quarters. When he passed the child, he felt a longing, a mad longing to seize him in his arms and carry him off. He touched him, as though by chance. The child turned his head and looked angrily at this clumsy fellow. At that Parent fled, struck, pursued, wounded by his glance. He fled like a thief, overcome by the horrible fear that he had been seen and recognised by his wife and her lover. He raced to his beerhouse and fell panting into his chair.
That evening he drank three absinths.
For four months he bore the scar of that meeting on his heart. Every night he saw them all again, happy and carefree father, mother, and child, walking along the boulevard before going home to dinner. This new vision effaced the old one. It was a new thing, a new hallucination, and a new grief, too. Little Georges, his little Georges, whom he had loved so well and kissed so much in the old days, was vanishing into a distant and ended past, and he saw a new Georges, like a brother of the old one, a little boy with bare calves, who did not know him! He suffered terribly from this thought. The child’s love was dead; there was no longer any bond between them; the child had not stretched out his arms at sight of him. He had given him an angry look.
Then little by little his soul grew calm again; his mental torments grew less keen; the image which appeared before his eyes and haunted his nights became vague, rarer. He began to live more like the rest of the world, like all the men of leisure who drink their bocks at marble-topped tables and wear out the seats of their trousers on the threadbare velvet seats.
He grew old amid the pipe-smoke, and bald in the gaslight, made quite an event of his weekly bath, his fortnightly haircut, the purchase of new clothes or a new hat. When he arrived at the beerhouse wearing a new hat, he would contemplate himself in the mirror for a long time before sitting down, would take it off and put it on several times in succession, would set it at different angles, and would finally ask his friend, the lady at the counter, who was looking at it with interest: “Do you think it suits me?”
Two or three times a year he would go to the theatre; and, in the summer, he would sometimes spend the evening at an open-air concert in the Champs-Élysées. He carried the tunes in his head; they sang in the depths of his memory for weeks; he would even hum them, beating time with his foot, as he sat at his bock.
The years followed one another, slow and monotonous, and short because they were empty.
He did not feel them slipping over his head. He advanced towards death without stirring, without exciting himself, sitting at a beerhouse table; only the great mirror against which he leaned a head that every day was a little balder, witnessed to the ravages of time, who runs swift-footed, devouring man, poor man.
By this time he seldom thought of the terrible drama in which his life had been wrecked, for twenty years had gone by since that ghastly evening.
But the life he had fashioned for himself ever since had worn him out, enervated him, exhausted him; often the proprietor of the beerhouse, the sixth proprietor since his first coming to the place, would say to him: “You need shaking up a bit, Monsieur Parent; you ought to get fresh air, go to the country; I assure you you’ve changed a great deal in the last few months.”
And as his client left, the man would pass on his reflections to the cashier: “Poor Monsieur Parent is in a bad way; staying in Paris all the time is doing him no good. Get him to go out into the country and have a fish dinner from time to time; he thinks a lot of your opinion. Summer’s coming soon; it’ll put some life into him.”
And the cashier, full of pity and kindly feeling for the obstinate customer, would every day repeat to Parent: “Now, Monsieur, make up your mind to get into the open air. It’s so lovely in the country when the weather’s fine! If I only could, I’d spend all my life there, I would.”
And she would tell him her dreams, the simple and poetical dreams of all the poor girls who are shut up from one year’s end to another behind the windows of a shop, and watch the glittering noisy stream of life go by in the street outside, and dream of the calm, sweet life of the fields, of life under the trees, under the radiant sun falling upon the meadows, the deep woods, the clear rivers, the cows lying in the grass, and all the various flowers, all the wild, free blossoms, blue, red, yellow, violet, lilac, pink, and white, so charming, so fresh, so sweet-scented, all the flowers of nature waiting there to be picked by the passerby and heaped into huge bunches.
She found pleasure in talking to him always of her perpetual longing, unrealised and unrealisable; and he, poor hopeless wretch, found pleasure in listening to her. He came and sat now beside the counter, so as to talk to Mademoiselle Zoé and discuss the country with her. Little by little a vague desire came over him to go and see, just once, whether it really was as nice as she said it was, outside the walls of the great city.
One morning he asked her:
“Do you know any place in the suburbs where one can get a good lunch?”
“Yes,” she replied; “go to La Terrasse at Saint-Germain. It’s so pretty.”
He had been there long ago, when he was engaged to Henriette. He decided to go again.
He chose a Sunday, for no particular reason, but merely because the usual thing is to go off for the day on a Sunday, even when the whole week is unoccupied.
So one Sunday morning he went off to Saint-Germain.
It was early in July, a hot, sunny day. Sitting in the corner of the railway carriage, he watched the passing of the trees and the strange little houses on the outskirts of Paris. He felt sad, annoyed with himself for having yielded to this new desire and broken his habits. The landscape, changing, yet always the same, wearied him. He was thirsty; he would gladly have got off at every station in order to sit down in the café that he saw outside, drink a bock or two, and take the next train back to Paris. And the journey seemed to him to be long, very long. He used to spend whole days sitting still with the same motionless objects before his eyes, but he found it enervating and wearisome to remain seated while moving about, to watch the country moving while he himself did not stir.
He took some interest in the Seine, nevertheless, whenever they crossed it. Under the bridge at Chatou he saw skiffs darting along at the powerful strokes of bare-armed oarsmen, and thought: “Those chaps must be having a good time.”
The long ribbon of river that unrolls from both sides of the bridge of Pecq aroused a vague desire in the depths of his heart to walk along the banks. But the train plunged into the tunnel which precedes Saint-Germain station and soon stopped at the arrival platform.
Parent got out and, weighed down by fatigue, went off in the direction of La Terrasse, his hands behind his back. Having reached the iron railing, he stopped to look at the view. The vast plain was spread out before him, boundless as the sea, a green expanse dotted with large villages as populous as towns. White roads ran across this wide country, patches of forest wooded it in various places, the pools of the Vésinet gleamed like silver medals, and the distant slopes of Sannois and Argenteuil hovered behind the light bluish mist like shadows of themselves. The warm, abundant light of the sun was bathing the whole broad landscape, faintly veiled by the morning mist, by the sweat of the heated earth exhaled in thin fog, and by the damp vapours of the Seine, gliding endlessly like a serpent across the plains, encircling the villages, and skirting the hills.
A soft breeze, laden with the odour of leaves and sap, caressed the skin, penetrated deep into the lungs, and seemed to rejuvenate the heart, ease the mind, and invigorate the blood.
Parent, surprised, drank deeply of it, his eyes dazzled by the vast sweep of the landscape.
“Yes, it’s very nice here,” he murmured.
He walked forward a few steps, and stopped again to stare. He fancied he was discovering new and unknown things, not the things which his eyes saw, but those of which his soul foretold him, events of which he was unaware, glimpses of happiness, unexplored pleasures, a whole view of life whose existence he had not suspected, suddenly revealed to him as he gazed at this stretch of boundless plains.
All the appalling melancholy of his existence appeared to him, brilliantly illumined by the radiance flooding the earth. He saw the twenty years of café life, drab, monotonous, heartbreaking. He might have travelled like other men, gone hither and thither among strange peoples in little-known lands across the seas, taken an interest in everything that fascinates other men, in art and in science; he might have lived life in a thousand forms, life the mysterious, delightful, agonising, always changing, always inexplicable and strange.
But now it was too late; he would go on swilling beer till the day of his death, without family, without friends, without hope, without interest in anything. Infinite wretchedness overwhelmed him, and a longing to run away, hide, go back to Paris, to his beerhouse and his sottishness. All the thoughts, all the dreams, all the desires slumbering in the sloth of a stagnant heart had been awakened, stirred to life by this ray of country sunlight.
He felt that he would go out of his mind if he stayed any longer in this place, and hastened to the Pavillon Henri IV for lunch, to dull his mind with wine and spirits and at least to talk to someone.
He chose a small table in one of the arbours, whence he could overlook all the surrounding country, chose his meal, and asked to be served at once.
Other excursionists arrived and sat down at nearby tables. He felt better; he was no longer alone. In another arbour three persons were lunching. He had glanced at them several times without really seeing them, as one looks at strangers.
Suddenly the voice of a woman gave him one of those thrills which penetrate to the very marrow.
“Georges,” said the voice, “will you carve the chicken?”
“Yes, Mother,” answered another voice.
Parent raised his eyes; he realised, guessed at once who these people were! He would never have known them again. His wife was very stout and quite white-haired, a grave, virtuous old lady. She thrust her head forward as she ate, for fear of staining her dress, although she had covered her bosom with a napkin. Georges had become a man. He had a beard, the uneven, almost colourless beard that lies like soft curling down upon the cheeks of youths. He wore a high hat, a white waistcoat, and a monocle, no doubt for fashion’s sake. Parent stared at him in amazement! Was this his son Georges? No, he did not know this young man; there could be nothing in common between them.
Limousin’s back was turned towards him; he was busy eating, his shoulders rather bowed.
Well, they all three seemed happy and contented; they had come to lunch in the country at a well-known restaurant. Their existence had been calm and pleasant, they had lived like a happy family in a nice, warm, well-filled house, filled with all the trifles that make life pleasant, all the delights of affection, all the tender words constantly exchanged by those who love each other. And it was thanks to him that they had lived thus, thanks to his money, after deceiving, robbing, and ruining him. They had condemned him, the innocent, simple, kindhearted victim, to all the horrors of loneliness, to the revolting life he led between pavement and bar, to every form of moral torment and physical misery. They had made of him a useless, ruined creature, lost in the world, a poor old man without any possible happiness or expectation of it, with no hope left in anything or person. For him the earth was empty, for there was nothing on earth that he loved. He might pass through crowds or along streets, go into every house in Paris, open every room, but never would he find, on the other side of the door, a face beloved or desired, the face of a woman or child that would smile at the sight of him. It was this idea especially that worked upon his mind, the image of a door that one opens in order to find and embrace someone behind it.
And it was all the fault of these three wretches; of that vile woman, that treacherous friend, and that tall fair lad with his assumption of haughtiness.
He bore as great a grudge now against the child as against the two others! Was he not Limousin’s son? If not, would Limousin have kept him, loved him? Would not Limousin have speedily dismissed the mother and the child, had he not known full well that the child was his? Does anyone bring up another man’s child?
And there they were, the three malefactors who had made him suffer so much.
Parent gazed at them, tormenting and exciting himself by the recollection of all his woes, all his agony, all the moments of despair he had known. He was exasperated, above all, by their air of placid self-satisfaction. He longed to kill them, to throw his siphon of soda-water at them, to smash in Limousin’s head, which every moment bobbed down towards his plate and instantly rose again.
And they would continue to live in this fashion, free from care, free from any sign of uneasiness. No, no! It was too much! He would have his revenge, have it now, since he had them here at hand. But how? He ransacked his mind, dreaming of appalling deeds such as happen in sensational novels, but could think of nothing practical. He drank glass after glass, to excite and encourage himself, so that he should not let slip an opportunity that certainly would never return.
Suddenly he had an idea, a terrible idea; he stopped drinking, in order to mature it. A smile creased his lips. “I’ve got them. I’ve got them,” he murmured. “We shall see. We shall see.”
“What would Monsieur like to follow?” asked a waiter.
“Nothing. Coffee and brandy, the best.”
He watched them as he sipped his liqueur. There were too many people in the restaurant for his purpose; he would wait; he would follow them; they were sure to go for a walk on the terrace or in the woods. When they had gone some distance away he would join them, and then he would have his revenge; yes, he would have his revenge! It was none too soon, after twenty-three years of suffering. Ah, they didn’t suspect what was going to befall them!
They were quietly finishing their lunch, chatting with no sense of anxiety. Parent could not hear their words, but he could see their calm gestures. The face of his wife was particularly exasperating to him. She had acquired a haughty air, the appearance of a fat and unapproachable nun, armour-plated with moral principles, casemated in virtue.
They paid their bill and rose. Then he saw Limousin. He looked for all the world like a retired diplomat, he wore such an air of importance, with his handsome whiskers, soft and white, whose points fell to the lapels of his frock-coat.
They departed. Georges was smoking a cigar, and wore his hat over one ear. Parent promptly followed them.
At first they walked along the terrace, regarding the landscape with the placid admiration of the well-fed; then they went into the forest.
Parent rubbed his hands and continued to follow them, at a distance, concealing himself so as not to rouse their notice too soon.
They walked with short steps, basking in the warm air and the greenery. Henriette was leaning on Limousin’s arm and was walking, very upright, at his side, like a wife sure and proud of herself. Georges was knocking leaves down with his cane, and occasionally leapt lightly over the ditches at the side of the road, like an eager young horse on the point of dashing into the foliage.
Little by little Parent caught them up, panting with emotion and weariness, for he never walked now. Soon he came up with them, but a confused, inexplicable fear had seized hold of him, and he went past them, so as to turn round and meet them face to face.
He walked on with a beating heart, feeling them now behind him, and kept saying to himself: “Come! Now is the time; courage, courage! Now is the time!”
He turned round. All three had sat down at the foot of a large tree, and were still chatting.
At that he made up his mind, and went back with rapid steps. Stopping in front of them, he stood in the middle of the road and stammered in a voice broken with emotion.
“It is I! Here I am! You were not expecting me, were you?”
All three stared at the man, whom they thought mad.
“Anyone might think you did not know me,” he continued. “Look at me! I am Parent, Henri Parent. You were not expecting me, eh? You thought it was all over; that you would never see me again, never. But no, here I am again. Now we will have it out.”
Henriette, terrified, hid her face in her hands, murmuring: “Oh, my God!”
Seeing this stranger apparently threatening his mother, Georges had risen, ready to take him by the throat.
Limousin, dumbfounded, was looking with terrified eyes at this man come from the dead, who waited for a few seconds to regain his breath and went on:
“So now we’ll have it out. The moment has come! You deceived me, condemned me to the life of a convict, and you thought I should never catch you!”
But the young man took him by the shoulders and, thrusting him away, said:
“Are you mad? What do you want? Get along with you at once or I’ll lay you out!”
“What do I want?” replied Parent. “I want to tell you who those people are.”
But Georges, furious now, shook him and raised his hand to strike him.
“Let go,” he said. “I am your father. … Look and see if those wretches recognise me now!”
Horribly startled, the young man loosened his grasp and turned to his mother.
Parent, freed, walked up to her.
“Well? Tell him who I am! Tell him that my name is Henri Parent, and that I am his father, since his name is Georges Parent, since you are my wife, since all three of you are living on my money, on the allowance of ten thousand francs which I have been giving you ever since I threw you out of my house. And tell him also why I threw you out of my house. Because I surprised you with that wretch, that scoundrel, your lover!—Tell him what I was, I, a good man whom you married for his money, and deceived from the first day. Tell him who you are and who I am. …”
He stammered and panted, overcome with rage.
“Paul, Paul!” cried the woman in a piercing voice. “Stop him; make him be silent! Stop him saying these things in the presence of my son!”
Limousin had risen in his turn.
“Be silent, be silent,” he murmured in a very low voice. “Realise what you are doing.”
“I know what I am doing!” replied Parent furiously. “That is not all. There is one thing I want to know, a thing which has been tormenting me for twenty years.”
He turned towards Georges, who was leaning against a tree, bewildered.
“Listen,” he continued. “When she left my house, she thought it was not enough to have betrayed me; she wanted to leave me hopeless too. You were my only consolation; well, she took you away, swearing that I was not your father, but that he was! Was she lying? I do not know. For twenty years I have been wondering.”
He went right up to her, a tragic, terrible figure, and, tearing away the hand with which she covered her face, cried:
“Well! I summon you today to tell me which of us is this young man’s father—he or I: your husband or your lover. Come, come, tell me!”
Limousin flung himself upon him. Parent thrust him back.
“Ah!” he sniggered furiously; “you are brave today; braver than the day when you fled on to the staircase because I was going to strike you. Well, if she won’t answer, answer yourself. Tell me, are you the boy’s father? Come, speak!”
He turned back to his wife.
“If you will not tell me,” he said, “at least tell your son. He is a man now. He has a perfect right to know who his father is. I do not know, I never have known, never! I cannot tell you, my boy.”
He grew more and more furious, and his voice grew shrill. He waved his arms like a man in an epileptic fit.
“Now! … Answer. … She does not know … I’ll wager she does not know. … No … she does not know. … By God! she slept with both of us! Ha! Ha! Ha! … Nobody knows … nobody … do people know these things? … You will not know either, my boy, you will not know any more than I do … ever … ask her! … Ask her! You will see that she does not know. Nor do I … nor does he … nor do you … nobody knows. … You can take your choice … yes … you can take your choice … him or me. … Choose. … Goodbye … that is all. … If she decides to tell you, let me know, won’t you, at the Hôtel des Continents. … I should like to know. … Goodbye. … I wish you every happiness …”
And he departed gesticulating, talking to himself, under the tall trees, in the cool, quiet air filled with the fragrance of rising sap. He did not turn round to look at them. He walked on, spurred on by fury, in an ecstasy of passion, his mind completely overturned by his obsession.
Suddenly he found himself at the station. A train was starting. He boarded it. During the journey his anger cooled, he regained his senses, and arrived back in Paris amazed at his boldness.
He felt crushed, as though his bones were broken. Nevertheless he went and had a look at his beerhouse.
Seeing him come in, Mademoiselle Zoé, surprised, inquired:
“Back already? Are you tired?”
“Yes,” he replied, “… yes very tired … very tired. … You see … when a man’s not used to going out! It’s the end; I’ll never go to the country again. I should have done better to stay here. From this time forward I’ll never stir out.”
And she was unable to get him to tell her about his excursion, though she was very eager to hear.
That evening, for the first time in his life, he got completely drunk, and had to be carried home.