an honorable man of strict
morals, had been touched by her distress and had married her; he knew the
fault she had committed and had married her, and had even recognized the
child, his, Francois Tessier's child, as his own.

He returned to the Parc Monceau every Sunday, for then he always saw her,
and each time he was seized with a mad, an irresistible longing to take
his son into his arms, to cover him with kisses and to steal him, to
carry him off.

He suffered horribly in his wretched isolation as an old bachelor, with
nobody to care for him, and he also suffered atrocious mental torture,
torn by paternal tenderness springing from remorse, longing and jealousy
and from that need of loving one's own children which nature has
implanted in all. At last he determined to make a despairing attempt,
and, going up to her, as she entered the park, he said, standing in the
middle of the path, pale and with trembling lips: "You do not recognize
me." She raised her eyes, looked at him, uttered an exclamation of
horror, of terror, and, taking the two children by the hand, she rushed
away, dragging them after her, while he went home and wept inconsolably.

Months passed without his seeing her again, but he suffered, day and
night, for he was a prey to his paternal love. He would gladly have died,
if he could only have kissed his son; he would have committed murder,
performed any task, braved any danger, ventured anything. He wrote to
her, but she did not reply, and, after writing her some twenty letters,
he saw that there was no hope of altering her determination, and then he
formed the desperate resolution of writing to her husband, being quite
prepared to receive a bullet from a revolver, if need be. His letter only
consisted of a few lines, as follows:

"Monsieur: You must have a perfect horror of my name, but I am so
wretched, so overcome by misery that my only hope is in you, and,
therefore, I venture to request you to grant me an interview of only five
minutes.

"I have the honor, etc."

The next day he received the reply:

"Monsieur: I shall expect you to-morrow, Tuesday, at five o'clock."

As he went up the staircase, Francois Tessier's heart beat so violently
that he had to stop several times. There was a dull and violent thumping
noise in his breast, as of some animal galloping; and he could breathe
only with difficulty, and had to hold on to the banisters, in order not
to fall.

He rang the bell on the third