he moment that
Limousin had been Henriette's lover, her adored lover, she would
certainly have given herself up to him, from the very first, with that
ardor of self-abandonment which makes women conceive. The cold reserve
which she had always shown in her intimate relations with him, Parent,
was surely also an obstacle to her having been fecundated by his
embrace.

In that case he would be claiming, he would take with him, constantly
keep and look after, the child of another man. He would not be able to
look at him, kiss him, hear him say "Papa" without being struck and
tortured by the thought, "he is not my child." He was going to condemn
himself to that torture, and that wretched life every moment! No, it
would be better to live alone, to grow old alone, and to die alone.

And every day and every night, these dreadful doubts and sufferings,
which nothing could calm or end, recommenced. He especially dreaded the
darkness of the evening, the melancholy feeling of the twilight. Then a
flood of sorrow invaded his heart, a torrent of despair, which seemed to
overwhelm him and drive him mad. He was as frightened of his own
thoughts as men are of criminals, and he fled before them as one does
from wild beasts. Above all things he feared his empty, dark, horrible
dwelling, and the deserted streets, in which, here and there, a gas lamp
flickers, where the isolated foot passenger whom one hears in the
distance seems to be a night-prowler, and makes one walk faster or
slower, according to whether he is coming towards you or following you.

And in spite of himself, and by instinct, Parent went in the direction
of the broad, well-lighted, populous streets. The light and the crowd
attracted him, occupied his mind and distracted his thoughts, and when
he was tired of walking aimlessly about amongst the moving crowd, when
he saw the foot passengers becoming more scarce, and the pavements less
crowded, the fear of solitude and silence drove him into some large
_cafe_ full of drinkers and of light. He went there like flies go to a
candle, and he used to sit down at one of the little round tables, and
ask for a _bock_[1], which he used to drink slowly, feeling uneasy every
time that a customer got up to go. He would have liked to take him by
the arm, hold him back and beg him to stay a little longer, so much did
he dread the time when the waiter would come up to him and say angrily:
"Come, Monsieur, it is closing time!"

[Footnote 1