But now it was too late; he would go on swilling beer till the day of his death, without family, without friends, without hope, without interest in anything. Infinite wretchedness overwhelmed him, and a longing to run away, hide, go back to Paris, to his beerhouse and his sottishness. All the thoughts, all the dreams, all the desires slumbering in the sloth of a stagnant heart had been awakened, stirred to life by this ray of country sunlight.
He felt that he would go out of his mind if he stayed any longer in this place, and hastened to the Pavillon Henri IV for lunch, to dull his mind with wine and spirits and at least to talk to someone.
He chose a small table in one of the arbours, whence he could overlook all the surrounding country, chose his meal, and asked to be served at once.
Other excursionists arrived and sat down at nearby tables. He felt better; he was no longer alone. In another arbour three persons were lunching. He had glanced at them several times without really seeing them, as one looks at strangers.
Suddenly the voice of a woman gave him one of those thrills which penetrate to the very marrow.
“Georges,” said the voice, “will you carve the chicken?”
“Yes, Mother,” answered another voice.
Parent raised his eyes; he realised, guessed at once who these people were! He would never have known them again. His wife was very stout and quite white-haired, a grave, virtuous old lady. She thrust her head forward as she ate, for fear of staining her dress, although she had covered her bosom with a napkin. Georges had become a man. He had a beard, the uneven, almost colourless beard that lies like soft curling down upon the cheeks of youths. He wore a high hat, a white waistcoat, and a monocle, no doubt for fashion’s sake. Parent stared at him in amazement! Was this his son Georges? No, he did not know this young man; there could be nothing in common between them.
Limousin’s back was turned towards him; he was busy eating, his shoulders rather bowed.
Well, they all three seemed happy and contented; they had come to lunch in the country at a well-known restaurant. Their existence had been calm and pleasant, they had lived like a happy family in a nice, warm, well-filled house, filled with all the trifles that make life pleasant, all the delights of affection, all the tender words constantly exchanged by those who love each other. And it was thanks to him that they had lived thus, thanks to his money, after deceiving, robbing, and ruining him. They had condemned him, the innocent, simple, kindhearted victim, to all the horrors of loneliness, to the revolting life he led between pavement and bar, to every form of moral torment and physical misery. They had made of him a useless, ruined creature, lost in the world, a poor old man without any possible happiness or expectation of it, with no hope left in anything or person. For him the earth was empty, for there was nothing on earth that he loved. He might pass through crowds or along streets, go into every house in Paris, open every room, but never would he find, on the other side of the door, a face beloved or desired, the face of a woman or child that would smile at the sight of him. It was this idea especially that worked upon his mind, the image of a door that one opens in order to find and embrace someone behind it.
And it was all the fault of these three wretches; of that vile woman, that treacherous friend, and that tall fair lad with his assumption of haughtiness.
He bore as great a grudge now against the child as against the two others! Was he not Limousin’s son? If not, would Limousin have kept him, loved him? Would not Limousin have speedily dismissed the mother and the child, had he not known full well that the child was his? Does anyone bring up another man’s child?
And there they were, the three malefactors who had made him suffer so much.
Parent gazed at them, tormenting and exciting himself by the recollection of all his woes, all his agony, all the moments of despair he had known. He was exasperated, above all, by their air of placid self-satisfaction. He longed to kill them, to throw his siphon of soda-water at them, to smash in Limousin’s head, which every moment bobbed down towards his plate and instantly rose again.
And they would continue to live in this fashion, free from care, free from any sign of uneasiness. No, no! It was too much! He would have his revenge, have it now, since he had them here at hand. But how? He ransacked his mind, dreaming of appalling deeds such as happen in sensational novels, but could think of nothing practical. He drank glass after glass, to excite and encourage himself, so that he should not let slip an opportunity that certainly would never return.
Suddenly he had an idea, a terrible idea; he stopped drinking, in order to mature it. A smile creased his lips. “I’ve got them. I’ve got them,” he murmured. “We shall see. We shall see.”
“What would Monsieur like to follow?” asked a waiter.
“Nothing. Coffee and brandy, the best.”
He watched them as he sipped his liqueur. There were too many people in the restaurant for his purpose; he would wait; he would follow them; they were sure to go for a walk on the terrace or in the woods. When they had gone some distance away he would join them, and then he would have his revenge; yes, he would have
