s, to unknown countries
beyond the sea, have interested himself somewhat in everything which
other men are passionately devoted to, in arts and science; he might have
enjoyed life in a thousand forms, that mysterious life which is either
charming or painful, constantly changing, always inexplicable and
strange. Now, however, it was too late. He would go on drinking "bock"
after "bock" until he died, without any family, without friends, without
hope, without any curiosity about anything, and he was seized with a
feeling of misery and a wish to run away, to hide himself in Paris, in
his cafe and his lethargy! All the thoughts, all the dreams, all the
desires which are dormant in the slough of stagnating hearts had
reawakened, brought to life by those rays of sunlight on the plain.

Parent felt that if he were to remain there any longer he should lose his
reason, and he made haste to get to the Pavilion Henri IV for lunch, to
try and forget his troubles under--the influence of wine and
alcohol, and at any rate to have some one to speak to.

He took a small table in one of the arbors, from which one can see all
the surrounding country, ordered his lunch, and asked to be served at
once. Then some more people arrived and sat down at tables near him. He
felt more comfortable; he was no longer alone. Three persons were eating
luncheon near him. He looked at them two or three times without seeing
them clearly, as one looks at total strangers. Suddenly a woman's voice
sent a shiver through him which seemed to penetrate to his very marrow.
"George," it said, "will you carve the chicken?"

And another voice replied: "Yes, mamma."

Parent looked up, and he understood; he guessed immediately who those
people were! He should certainly not have known them again. His wife had
grown quite white and very stout, an elderly, serious, respectable lady,
and she held her head forward as she ate for fear of spotting her dress,
although she had a table napkin tucked under her chin. George had become
a man. He had a slight beard, that uneven and almost colorless beard
which adorns the cheeks of youths. He wore a high hat, a white waistcoat,
and a monocle, because it looked swell, no doubt. Parent looked at him in
astonishment. Was that George, his son? No, he did not know that young
man; there could be nothing in common between them. Limousin had his back
to him, and was eating; with his shoulders rather bent.

All three of them seemed happy