at him, to see it...."

Parent staggered back from her, and then he suddenly turned round, took
a candle and rushed into the next room; almost immediately, however, he
returned, carrying little George, wrapped up in his bed clothes, and the
child, who had been suddenly awakened, was crying with fright. Parent
threw him into his wife's arms, and then, without saying anything more,
he pushed her roughly out, towards the stairs, where Limousin was
waiting, from motives of prudence.

Then he shut the door again, double-locked it, and bolted it, and he had
scarcely got into the drawing-room, when he fell onto the floor at full
length.

II

Parent lived alone, quite alone. During the five weeks that followed
their separation, the feeling of surprise at his new life, prevented him
from thinking much. He had resumed his bachelor life, his habits of
lounging about, and he took his meals at a restaurant, as he had done
formerly. As he had wished to avoid any scandal, he made his wife an
allowance, which was settled by their lawyers. By degrees, however, the
thoughts of the child began to haunt him. Often, when he was at home
alone at night, he suddenly thought he heard George calling out _papa_,
and his heart used to begin to beat, and he got up quickly and opened
the door to see whether, by chance, the child might have returned, like
dogs or pigeons do. Why should a child have less instinct than an
animal?

After finding that he was mistaken, he went and sat down in his armchair
again and thought of the boy, and he thought of him for hours, and whole
days. It was not only a moral, but still more a physical obsession, a
nervous longing to kiss him, to hold and fondle him, to take him onto
his knees and dance him. He felt the child's little arms round his neck,
his little mouth pressing a kiss on his beard, his soft hair tickling
his cheeks, and the remembrance of all those childish ways, made him
suffer like the desire for some beloved woman, who has run away, and
then twenty or a hundred times a day he asked himself the question,
whether he was or was not George's father, and at night, especially, he
indulged in interminable speculations on the point, and almost before he
was in bed, he every night recommenced the same series of despairing
arguments.

After his wife's departure, he had at first not felt the slightest
doubt; certainly the child was Limousin's, but by degrees he began to
waver. Henriette's words could n