“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 through his clothes, and it filled him with love, courage, and happiness; that gentle warmth 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!” He looked at him with haggard, troubled eyes, and tried to discover whether there was any likeness in his forehead, in his nose, mouth, or cheeks.  His thoughts wandered as they do when a person is going mad, and his child’s face changed in his eyes, and assumed a strange look and improbable resemblances.

The hall bell rang.  Parent gave a bound as if a bullet had gone through him.  “There she is,” he said.  “What shall I do?” And he ran and locked himself up in his room, to have time to bathe his eyes.  But in a few moments another ring at the bell made him jump again, and then he remembered that Julie had left, without the housemaid knowing it, and so nobody would go to open the door.  What was he to do?  He went himself, and suddenly he felt brave, resolute, ready for dissimulation and the struggle.  The terrible blow had matured him in a few moments.  He wished to know the truth, he desired it with the rage of a timid man, and with the tenacity of an easy-going man who has been exasperated.

Nevertheless, he trembled.  Does one know how much excited cowardice there often is in boldness?  He went to the door with furtive steps, and stopped to listen; his heart beat furiously.  Suddenly, however, the noise of the bell over his head startled him like an explosion.  He seized the lock, turned the key, and opening the door, saw his wife and Limousin standing before him on the stairs.

With an air of astonishment, which also betrayed a little irritation, she said: 

“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 she gone?  Why?”

By degrees he regained his coolness.  He felt an intense hatred rise up in him for that insolent woman who was standing before him.

“Yes, she has gone altogether.  I sent her away.”