Parent looked up, and he understood; he guessed immediately who those people were!  He should certainly not have known them again.  His wife had grown quite white and very stout, an elderly, serious, respectable lady, and she held her head forward as she ate for fear of spotting her dress, although she had a table napkin tucked under her chin.  George had become a man.  He had a slight beard, that uneven and almost colorless beard which adorns the cheeks of youths.  He wore a high hat, a white waistcoat, and a monocle, because it looked swell, no doubt.  Parent looked at him in astonishment.  Was that George, his son?  No, he did not know that young man; there could be nothing in common between them.  Limousin had his back to him, and was eating; with his shoulders rather bent.

All three of them seemed happy and satisfied; they came and took luncheon in the country at well-known restaurants.  They had had a calm and pleasant 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 they love each other.  They had lived thus, thanks to him, Parent, on his money, after having deceived him, robbed him, ruined him!  They had condemned him, the innocent, simple-minded, jovial man, to all the miseries of solitude, to that abominable life which he had led, between the pavement and a bar-room, to every mental torture and every physical misery!  They had made him a useless, aimless being, a waif in the world, a poor old man without any pleasures, any prospects, expecting nothing from anybody or anything.  For him, the world was empty, because he loved nothing in the world.  He might go among other nations, or go about the streets, go into all the houses in Paris, open every room, but he would not find inside any door the beloved face, the face of wife or child which smiles when it sees you.  This idea worked upon him more than any other, the idea of a door which one opens, to see and to embrace somebody behind it.

And that was the fault of those three wretches!  The fault of that worthless woman, of that infamous friend, and of that tall, light-haired lad who put on insolent airs.  Now he felt as angry with the child as he did with the other two.  Was he not Limousin’s son?  Would Limousin have kept him and loved him otherwise?  Would not Limousin very quickly have got rid of the mother and of the child if he had not felt sure that it was 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 him suffer so much.

Parent looked at them, irritated and excited at the recollection of all his sufferings and of his despair, and was especially exasperated at their placid and satisfied looks.  He felt inclined to kill them, to throw his siphon of Seltzer water at them, to split open Limousin’s head as he every moment bent it over his plate, raising it again immediately.