dgings
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, 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 an office
clerk, without hope and without expectation. Every day he got up at the
same time, went through the same streets, went through the same door,
past 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 different 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 du
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 anti 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 reserved appearance 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 tree, waiting for her to go
that he might follow her.

He did not sleep that night. The idea of the child especially tormented
him. His son! Oh, if he could only have known, have been sure! But what
could he have done? However, he went to the house where she lived and
asked about her. He was told that a neighbor,