nervous longing to kiss him, to hold and fondle him, to take him onto
his knees and dance him. He felt the child's little arms round his neck,
his little mouth pressing a kiss on his beard, his soft hair tickling
his cheeks, and the remembrance of all those childish ways, made him
suffer like the desire for some beloved woman, who has run away, and
then twenty or a hundred times a day he asked himself the question,
whether he was or was not George's father, and at night, especially, he
indulged in interminable speculations on the point, and almost before he
was in bed, he every night recommenced the same series of despairing
arguments.

After his wife's departure, he had at first not felt the slightest
doubt; certainly the child was Limousin's, but by degrees he began to
waver. Henriette's words could not be of any value. She had merely
braved him, and tried to drive him to desperation, and calmly weighing
the _pros_ and _cons_, there seemed to be every chance that she had
lied, though perhaps only Limousin could tell the truth. But how was he
to find it out, how could he question him or persuade him to confess the
real facts?

Sometimes Parent would get up in the middle of the night, fully
determined to go and see Limousin and to beg him, to offer him anything
he wanted, to put an end to this intolerable misery. Then he went back
to bed in despair, reflecting that her lover would also lie, no doubt!
He would be even sure to lie, in order to prevent him from taking away
the child, if he were really his father. What could he do, then?
Absolutely nothing!

And he was sorry that he had thus suddenly brought about the crisis,
that he had not taken time for reflection, that he had not waited and