w tired of her, when she told him she was pregnant, and
then he had one idea and wish: To break with her at any price. As,
however, he could not do that, not knowing how to begin or what to say,
full of anxiety through the fear of that child which was growing, he
took a decisive step: One night he changed his lodgings, and
disappeared.

The blow was so heavy that she did not look for the man who had
abandoned her, but threw herself at her mother's knees and confessed her
misfortune, and some months after, she gave birth to a boy.

IV

Years passed, and Francois Tessier grew old without there having been
any alteration in his life. He led the dull, monotonous life of
_bureaucrates_, without hopes and without expectations. Every day he got
up at the same time, went through the same streets, went through the
same door, passed the same porter, went into the same office, sat in the
same chair, and did the same work. He was alone in the world, alone,
during the day in the midst of his colleagues, and alone at night in his
bachelor's lodgings, and he laid by a hundred francs a month, against
old age.

Every Sunday he went to the _Champs-Elysees_, to watch the elegant
people, the carriages and the pretty women, and the next day he used to
say to one of his colleagues: "The return of the carriages from the
_Bois de Boulogne_ was very brilliant yesterday." One fine Sunday
morning, however, he went into the _Parc Monceau_, where the mothers and
nurses, sitting on the sides of the walks, watched the children playing,
and suddenly Francois Tessier started. A woman passed by, holding two
children by the hand; a little boy of about ten and a little girl of
four. It was she.

He walked another hundred yards, and then fell into a chair, choking
with emotion. She had not recognized him, and so he came back, wishing
to see her again. She was sitting down now, and the boy was standing by
her side very quietly, while the little girl was making sand castles. It
was she, it was certainly she, but she had the serious looks of a lady,
was dressed simply, and looked self-possessed and dignified. He looked
at her from a distance, for he did not venture to go near, but the
little boy raised his head, and Francois Tessier felt himself tremble.
It was his own son, there could be no doubt of that. And as he looked at
him, he thought he could recognize himself as he appeared in an old
photograph taken years ago. He remained hidden behind a tre