He turned to his wife again. “If you will
not tell me, at any rate tell your son. He is
a man, now, and he has the right to know who his father
is. I do not know, and I never did know, never,
never! I cannot tell you, my boy.”
He seemed to be losing his senses; his voice grew
shrill and he worked his arms about as if he had an
epileptic ’fit.
“Come! . . . Give me an answer. She
does not know . . . I will make a bet that she
does not know . . . No . . . she does not know,
by Jove! Ha! ha! ha! Nobody knows . . .
nobody . . . How can one know such things?
“You will not know either, my boy, you will
not know any more than I do . . . never. . . .
Look here . . . Ask her you will find that she
does not know . . . I do not know either . .
. nor does he, nor do you, nobody knows. You
can choose . . . You can choose . . . yes, you
can choose him or me. . . Choose.
“Good evening . . . It is all over.
If she makes up her mind to tell you, you will come
and let me know, will you not? I am living at
the Hotel des Continents . . . I should be glad
to know . . . Good evening . . . I hope
you will enjoy yourselves very much . . .”
And he went away gesticulating, talking to himself
under the tall trees, in the quiet, the cool air,
which was full of the fragrance of growing plants.
He did not turn round to look at them, but went straight
on, walking under the stimulus of his rage, under
a storm of passion, with that one fixed idea in his
mind. All at once he found himself outside the
station. A train was about to start and he got
in. During the journey his anger calmed down,
he regained his senses and returned to Paris, astonished
at his own boldness, full of aches and pains as if
he had broken some bones. Nevertheless, he went
to have a “bock” at his brewery.
When she saw him come in, Mademoiselle Zoe asked in
surprise: “What! back already? are you
tired?”
“Yes—yes, I am tired . . . very tired
. . . You know, when one is not used to going
out. . . I’ve had enough of it. I shall
not go into the country again. It would have
been better to have stayed here. For the future,
I shall not stir out.”
She could not persuade him to tell her about his little
excursion, much as she wished to.
For the first time in his life he got thoroughly drunk
that night, and had to be carried home.
In Argenteuil she was called Queen Hortense.
No one knew why. Perhaps it was because she had
a commanding tone of voice; perhaps because she was
tall, bony, imperious; perhaps because she governed
a kingdom of servants, chickens, dogs, cats, canaries,
parrots, all so dear to an old maid’s heart.
But she did not spoil these familiar friends; she had
for them none of those endearing names, none of the
foolish tenderness which women seem to lavish on the
soft fur of a purring cat. She governed these
beasts with authority; she reigned.
