Little George was making hills of sand in one of the
walks; he took it up with both his hands, made it
into a pyramid, and then put a chestnut leaf on the
top, and his father, sitting on an iron chair was looking
at him with concentrated and affectionate attention,
and saw nobody but him in that small public garden
which was full of people. All along the circular
road other children were occupied in the same manner,
or else were indulging in childish games, while nursemaids
were walking two and two, with their bright cap ribbons
floating behind them, and carrying something wrapped
up in lace, on their arms, and little girls in short
petticoats and bare legs were talking seriously together,
during the intervals of trundling their hoops.
The sun was just disappearing behind the roofs of
the Rue Saint-Lazare, but still shed its rays
obliquely on that little over-dressed crowd.
The chestnut trees were lighted up with its yellow
rays, and the three fountains before the lofty porch
of the church, had the appearance of liquid silver.
Monsieur Parent looked at his son sitting in the dusk,
he followed his slightest movements with affection,
but accidentally looking up at the church clock, he
saw that he was five minutes late, so he got up, took
the child by the arm and shook his dress which was
covered with sand, wiped his hands and led him in
the direction of the Rue Blanche, and he walked
quickly, so as not to get in after his wife, but as
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, turning gray already, rather stout, and
had married, a few years previously, a young woman
whom he dearly loved, but who now treated him with
the severity and authority of an all-powerful despot.
She found fault with him continually for everything
that he did, or did not do, reproached him bitterly
for his slightest acts, his habits, his simple pleasures,
his tastes, his movements and walk, and for having
a round stomach and a placid voice.
He still loved her, however, but above all he loved
the child which he had had by her, and George, who
was now three, had become the greatest joy, and had
preoccupation of his heart. He himself had a modest
private fortune, and lived without doing anything
on his twenty thousand francs a year, and his wife,
who had been quite portionless, was constantly angry
at her husband’s inactivity.
At last he reached his house, put down the child,
wiped his forehead and walked upstairs, and when he
got to the second floor, he rang. An old servant
who had brought him up, one of those mistress-servants
who are the tyrants of families, opened the door to
him, and he asked her anxiously: “Has Madame
come in yet?” The servant shrugged her shoulders:
“When have you ever known Madame to come home
at half past six, Monsieur?” And he replied
with some embarrassment: “Very well; all
the better; it will give me time to change my things,
for I am very hot.”
