emembered the dreadful things the servant had told him.
Then, by degrees his reason grew clearer like muddy water, and the
abominable revelation began to work in his heart.

Julie had spoken so clearly, with so much force, assurance and
sincerity, that he did not doubt her good faith, but he persisted in not
believing her penetration. She might have been deceived, blinded by her
devotion to him, carried away by unconscious hatred for Henriette.
However, in measure as he tried to reassure and to convince himself, a
thousand small facts recurred to his recollection, his wife's words,
Limousin's looks, a number of unobserved, almost unseen trifles, her
going out late, their simultaneous absence, and even some almost
insignificant, but strange gestures, which he could not understand, now
assumed an extreme importance for him and established a connivance
between them. Everything that had happened since his engagement, surged
through his over-excited brain, in his misery, and he obstinately went
through his five years of married life, trying to recollect every detail
month by month, day by day, and every disquieting circumstance that he
remembered stung him to the quick like a wasp's sting.

He was not thinking of George any more, who was quiet now and on the
carpet, but seeing that no notice was being taken of him the boy began
to cry. Then his father ran up to him, took him into his arms, and
covered him with kisses. His child remained to him at any rate! What did
the rest matter? He held him in his arms and pressed his lips onto his
light hair, and relieved and composed, he whispered: "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 to his through
their clothes, and it filled him with love, courage and happiness; that
gentle heat 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, "Sup