So he was about to claim, take home, and perpetually cherish another man’s child? He could never look at him, kiss him, hear him say “daddy” without being struck and torn by the thought: “He is not my son at all.” He was about to condemn himself for all time to this torture, this miserable existence! No, better to dwell alone, live alone, grow old alone, and die alone!
Every day and every night were renewed these abominable uncertainties and sufferings that nothing could assuage or end. Above all he dreaded the darkness of the falling dusk, the melancholy of twilight. It was then that there fell upon his heart with the darkness a shower of grief, a flood of despair, drowning him, maddening him. He was afraid of his thoughts, as a man fears criminals, and he fled before them like a hunted animal. Above all he dreaded his empty dwelling, so dark and dreadful, and the streets, also deserted, where here and there a gas-lamp glimmers, and the lonely passerby heard in the distance is like a prowling marauder and your pace quickens or slackens as he follows you or comes towards you.
In spite of himself, Parent instinctively sought out the main streets, well lighted and populous. The lights and the crowds attracted him, occupied his mind and dulled his senses. When he was weary of wandering idly through the throng, when the passersby became fewer and the pavements emptier, the terrors of solitude and silence drove him to some large café full of customers and glare. He would rush to it like a moth to the flame, sit down at a little round table, and order a bock. He would drink it slowly, disturbed in mind by every customer who rose to leave. He would have liked to take him by the arm, to hold him back, to beg him to stay a little longer, so afraid was he of the moment when the waiter would stand in front of him and remark with a wrathful air: “Closing time, Monsieur.”
For, every evening, he was the last to go. He saw the tables carried inside, and, one by one, the gas-jets turned down, all except two, his own and the one at the counter. Miserably he would watch the cashier count the money and lock it up in the drawer; and he would depart, thrust out by the staff, who would mutter: “There’s a limpet for you; anyone might think he had nowhere to sleep.”
And as soon as he found himself in the street once more, he would begin to think of little Georges again, ransacking his tortured brain to discover whether he was or was not the father of his child.
In this way he caught the beerhouse habit; there the perpetual jostling of the drinkers keeps you familiar but silent company, and the heavy smoke of the pipes quiets uneasy thoughts, while the heavy beer dulls the mind and calms the heart.
He lived in these places. As soon as he got up, he went off thither to find his eyes and his thoughts. Then, out of laziness, he soon took to having his meals there. At about midday he would rap his saucer on the marble table, and the waiter would speedily bring a plate, a glass, a napkin, and that day’s lunch. As soon as he had finished eating, he would slowly drink his coffee, his eyes fixed on the decanter of brandy which would soon give him an hour of blessed sottishness. First of all he would moisten his lips with the brandy, as though to take the taste of it, merely culling the flavour of the liquor with the tip of his tongue. Then he would pour it into his mouth, drop by drop, letting his head fall back; he would let the strong liquor run slowly over his palate, over his gums, over the membrane of his cheeks, mingling it with the clear saliva which flowed freely at its contact. Then, refreshed by the mixture, he swallowed it unctuously, feeling it run all the way down his throat to the pit of his stomach.
After every meal he would spend more than an hour in sipping thus three or four glasses, which numbed his brain little by little. Then he would sink his head on to his chest, close his eyes, and doze. He would wake up in the middle of the afternoon and promptly reach for the bock which the waiter had set before him while he was asleep; then, having drunk it, he would sit up straight on the red velvet seat, pull up his trousers and pull down his waistcoat so as to cover up the white line which had appeared between them, shake his coat collar, pull down his cuffs, and then would take up the papers he had already read in the morning. He went through them again from the first line to the last, including the advertisements, the “situations wanted” column, the personal column, the stock exchange news and the theatre programs.
Between four and six he would go for a walk along the boulevards, to take the air, as he used to say; then he would come back to the seat which had been kept for him and order his absinth.
Then he would chat with the regular customers whose acquaintance he had made. They would comment on the topics of the day, the news items and the political events; this led up to dinner. The evening passed like the afternoon, until closing time. This was for him the terrible moment when he had to go home in the dark to his empty room, full of terrible memories, horrible thoughts and agonising griefs. He no longer saw any of his old friends, any of his relations, anyone who might remind him of his past
