light hair, and relieved and composed, he whispered: "George, ... my
little George, ... my dear little George ..." But he suddenly remembered
what Julie had said! ... Yes! she had said that he was Limousin's
child... Oh! It could not be possible, surely! He could not believe it,
could not doubt, even for a moment, that he was his own child. It was
one of those low scandals which spring from servants' brains! And he
repeated: "George ... my dear little George." The youngster was quiet
again, now that his father was fondling him.

Parent felt the warmth of the little chest penetrate to his through
their clothes, and it filled him with love, courage and happiness; that
gentle heat soothed him, fortified him and saved him. Then he put the
small, curly head away from him a little and looked at it
affectionately, still repeating: "George! ... Oh! my little George! ..."
But suddenly he thought, "Suppose he were to resemble Limousin, ...
after all!"

There was something strange working within him, a fierce feeling, a
poignant and violent sensation of cold in his whole body, in all his
limbs, as if his bones had suddenly been turned to ice. Oh! if he were
to resemble Limousin and he continued to look at George, who was
laughing now. He looked at him with haggard, troubled eyes, and he tried
to discover whether there was any likeness in his forehead, in his nose,
mouth or cheeks. His thoughts wandered like they do when a person is
going mad, and his child's face changed in his eyes, and assumed a
strange look, and unlikely resemblances.

Julie had said: "A blind man could not be mistaken in him." There must,
therefore, be something striking, an undeniable likeness! But what? The
forehead? Yes, perhaps, Limousin's forehead, however, was narrower. The