nner, and endeavored to eat
something himself, but he could only swallow with an effort, as his
throat felt paralyzed. By degrees he was seized with an insane desire to
look at Limousin, who was sitting opposite to him, making bread pellets,
to see whether George was like him, but he did not venture to raise his
eyes for some time. At last, however, he made up his mind to do so, and
gave a quick, sharp look at the face which he knew so well, although he
almost fancied that he had never examined it carefully. It looked so
different to what he had imagined. From time to time he looked at
Limousin, trying to recognize a likeness in the smallest lines of his
face, in the slightest features, and then he looked at his son, under the
pretext of feeding him.

Two words were sounding in his ears: "His father! his father! his
father!" They buzzed in his temples at every beat of his heart. Yes, that
man, that tranquil man who was sitting on the other side of the table,
was, perhaps, the father of his son, of George, of his little George.
Parent left off eating; he could not swallow any more. A terrible pain,
one of those attacks of pain which make men scream, roll on the ground,
and bite the furniture, was tearing at his entrails, and he felt inclined
to take a knife and plunge it into his stomach. He started when he heard
the door open. His wife came in. "I am hungry," she said; "are not you,
Limousin?"

He hesitated a little, and then said: "Yes, I am, upon my word." She had
the leg of mutton brought in again. Parent asked himself "Have they had
dinner? Or are they late because they have had a lovers' meeting?"

They both ate with a very good appetite. Henriette was very calm, but
laughed and joked. Her husband watched her furtively. She had on a pink
teagown trimmed with white lace, and her fair head, her white neck and
her plump hands stood out from that coquettish and perfumed dress as
though it were a sea shell edged with foam.

What fun they must be making of him, if he had been their dupe since the
first day! Was it possible to make a fool of a man, of a worthy man,
because his father had left him a little money? Why could one not see
into people's souls? How was it that nothing revealed to upright hearts
the deceits of infamous hearts? How was it that voices had the same sound
for adoring as for lying? Why was a false, deceptive look the same as a
sincere one? And he watched them, waiting to catch a gesture, a word, an