Julie had spoken so clearly, with so much force, assurance and sincerity, that he did not doubt her good faith, but he persisted in not believing her penetration.  She might have been deceived, blinded by her devotion to him, carried away by unconscious hatred for Henriette.  However, in measure as he tried to reassure and to convince himself, a thousand small facts recurred to his recollection, his wife’s words, Limousin’s looks, a number of unobserved, almost unseen trifles, her going out late, their simultaneous absence, and even some almost insignificant, but strange gestures, which he could not understand, now assumed an extreme importance for him and established a connivance between them.  Everything that had happened since his engagement, surged through his over-excited brain, in his misery, and he obstinately went through his five years of married life, trying to recollect every detail month by month, day by day, and every disquieting circumstance that he remembered stung him to the quick like a wasp’s sting.

He was not thinking of George any more, who was quiet now and on the carpet, but seeing that no notice was being taken of him the boy began to cry.  Then his father ran up to him, took him into his arms, and covered him with kisses.  His child remained to him at any rate!  What did the rest matter?  He held him in his arms and pressed his lips onto his light hair, and relieved and composed, he whispered:  “George, ... my little George, ... my dear little George ...”  But he suddenly remembered what Julie had said! ...  Yes! she had said that he was Limousin’s child...  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 was one of those low scandals which spring from servants’ brains!  And he repeated:  “George ... my dear little George.”  The youngster was quiet again, now that his father was fondling him.

Parent felt the warmth of the little chest penetrate to his through their clothes, and it filled him with love, courage and happiness; that gentle heat soothed him, fortified him and saved him.  Then he put the small, curly head away from him a little and looked at it affectionately, still repeating:  “George! ...  Oh! my little George! ...”  But suddenly he thought, “Suppose he were to resemble Limousin, ... after all!”

There was something strange working within him, a fierce feeling, a poignant and violent sensation of cold in his whole body, in all his limbs, as if his bones had suddenly been turned to ice.  Oh! if he were to resemble Limousin and he continued to look at George, who was laughing now.  He looked at him with haggard, troubled eyes, and he tried to discover whether there was any likeness in his forehead, in his nose, mouth or cheeks.  His thoughts wandered like they do when a person is going mad, and his child’s face changed in his eyes, and assumed a strange look, and unlikely resemblances.