Parent sat by the side of the child, very much upset and distressed at all that had happened.  He gave the boy his dinner, and endeavored to eat something him self.  But he could only swallow with an effort, as if his throat had been paralyzed.  By degrees, he was seized by an insane desire of looking at Limousin who was sitting opposite to him and making bread pellets, to see whether George was like him, but he did not venture to raise his eyes for some time; at last, however, he made up his mind to do so, and gave a quick, sharp look at the face which he knew so well, although he almost fancied that he had never looked at it carefully, as it looked so different to what he had fancied.  From time to time he looked at him, trying to recognize a likeness in the smallest lines of his face, in the slightest features, and then he looked at his son, under the pretext of feeding him.

Two words were sounding in his ears “His father! his father! his father!” 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 the table was, perhaps, the father of his son, of George, of his little George.  Parent left off eating; he could not manage any more; a terrible pain, one of those attacks of pain which make men scream, roll on the ground and bite the furniture, was tearing at his entrails, and he felt inclined to take a knife and plunge it into his stomach.  It would ease him and save him, and all would be over.

For could he live now?  Could he get up in the morning, join in the meals, go out into the streets, go to bed at night and sleep with that idea dominating him:  “Limousin is Little George’s father!” No, he would not have the strength to walk a step, to dress himself, to think of anything, to speak to anybody!  Every day, every hour, every moment, he should be trying to know, to guess, to discover this terrible secret.  And the little boy, his dear little boy, he could not look at him any more without enduring the terrible pains of that doubt, of being tortured by it to the very marrow of his bones.  He would be obliged to live there, to remain in that house, with that child whom he should love and hate!  Yes, he should certainly end by hating him.  What torture!  Oh!  If he were sure that Limousin was his father, he might, perhaps, grow calm, become accustomed to his misfortune and his pain, but not to know, was intolerable.

Not to know, to be always trying to find out, to be continually suffering, to kiss the child every moment, another man’s child, to take him out for walks, to carry him, to caress him, to love him, and to think continually:  “Perhaps he is not my child?  Would it not be better not to see him, to abandon him,—­to lose him in the streets, or to go away, far away, himself so far away that he should never hear anything more spoken about, never!”

He started when he heard the door open.  His wife came.  “I am hungry,” she said; “are not you also, Limousin?” He hesitated a little, and then said:  “Yes, I am, upon my word.”  And she had the leg of mutton brought in again, while Parent asked himself:  “Have they had dinner?  Or are they late because they have had a lovers’ meeting?”