tanding upright, with his hair falling on
his shoulders and a beard descending to his breast, with shining eyes,
and nothing but rags to cover him. They did not recognize him, but Louise
Hauser exclaimed:

"It is Ulrich, mother." And her mother declared that it was Ulrich,
although his hair was white.

He allowed them to go up to him and to touch him, but he did not reply to
any of their questions, and they were obliged to take him to Loeche,
where the doctors found that he was mad, and nobody ever found out what
had become of his companion.

Little Louise Hauser nearly died that summer of decline, which the
physicians attributed to the cold air of the mountains.

ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES, Vol. 5.

GUY DE MAUPASSANT
ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES
Translated by
ALBERT M. C. McMASTER, B.A.
A. E. HENDERSON, B.A.
MME. QUESADA and Others

VOLUME V.

MONSIEUR PARENT

George's father was sitting in an iron chair, watching his little son
with concentrated affection and attention, as little George piled up the
sand into heaps during one of their walks. He would take up the sand with
both hands, make a mound of it, and put a chestnut leaf on top. His
father saw no one but him in that public park full of people.

The sun was just disappearing behind the roofs of the Rue Saint-Lazare,
but still shed its rays obliquely on that little, overdressed crowd. The
chestnut trees were lighted up by its yellow rays, and the three
fountains before the lofty porch of the church had the appearance of
liquid silver.

Monsieur Parent, accidentally looking up at the church clock, saw that he
was five minutes late. He got up, took the child by the arm, shook his
dress, which was covered with sand, wiped his hands, and led him in the
direction of the Rue Blanche. He walked quickly, so as not to get in
after his wife, and the child could not keep up with him. He took him up
and carried him, though it made him pant when he had to walk up the steep
street. He was a man of forty, already turning gray, and rather stout. At
last he reached his house. An old servant who had brought him up, one of
those trusted servants who are the tyrants of families, opened the door
to him.

"Has madame come in yet?" he asked anxiously.

The servant shrugged her shoulders:

"When have you ever known madame to come home at half-past six,
monsieur?"

"Very wel