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 well; all the better; it will give me
time to change my things, for I am very warm.”
The servant looked at him with angry and contemptuous
pity. “Oh, I can see that well enough,”
she grumbled. “You are covered with perspiration,
monsieur. I suppose you walked quickly and carried
the child, and only to have to wait until half-past
seven, perhaps, for madame. I have made up my
mind not to have dinner ready on time. I shall
get it for eight o’clock, and if, you have to
wait, I cannot help it; roast meat ought not to be
burnt!”
Monsieur Parent pretended not to hear, but went into
his own room, and as soon as he got in, locked the
door, so as to be alone, quite alone. He was
so used now to being abused and badly treated that
he never thought himself safe except when he was locked
in.
What could he do? To get rid of Julie seemed
to him such a formidable thing to do that he hardly
ventured to think of it, but it was just as impossible
to uphold her against his wife, and before another
month the situation would become unbearable between
the two. He remained sitting there, with his
arms hanging down, vaguely trying to discover some
means to set matters straight, but without success.
He said to himself: “It is lucky that I
have George; without him I should-be very miserable.”
