although he almost fancied that he had never looked at it carefully, as
it looked so different to what he had fancied. From time to time he
looked at him, trying to recognize a likeness in the smallest lines of
his face, in the slightest features, and then he looked at his son,
under the pretext of feeding him.

Two words were sounding in his ears "His father! his father! his
father!" They buzzed in his temples at every beat of his heart. Yes,
that man, that tranquil man who was sitting on the other side of the
table was, perhaps, the father of his son, of George, of his little
George. Parent left off eating; he could not manage any more; a terrible
pain, one of those attacks of pain which make men scream, roll on the
ground and bite the furniture, was tearing at his entrails, and he felt
inclined to take a knife and plunge it into his stomach. It would ease
him and save him, and all would be over.

For could he live now? Could he get up in the morning, join in the
meals, go out into the streets, go to bed at night and sleep with that
idea dominating him: "Limousin is Little George's father!" No, he would
not have the strength to walk a step, to dress himself, to think of
anything, to speak to anybody! Every day, every hour, every moment, he
should be trying to know, to guess, to discover this terrible secret.
And the little boy, his dear little boy, he could not look at him any
more without enduring the terrible pains of that doubt, of being
tortured by it to the very marrow of his bones. He would be obliged to
live there, to remain in that house, with that child whom he should love
and hate! Yes, he should certainly end by hating him. What torture! Oh!
If he were sure that Limousin was his father, he might, perhaps, grow
calm, become accustomed to his misfortune and his pain, but not to know,
was intolerable.