head, which he every moment bent over his plate and raised it up again
immediately. And they continued to live like that, without cares or
anxiety of any kind. No! no! That was really too much, after all! He
would avenge himself, he would have his revenge now, on the spot, as he
had them under his hand. But how? He tried to think of some means, he
pictured such dreadful things as one reads of in the newspapers
occasionally, but could not hit on anything practical. And he went on
drinking to excite himself, to give himself courage not to allow such an
occasion to escape him, as he should certainly not meet with it again.

Suddenly an idea struck him, a terrible idea, and he left off drinking
to mature it. A smile rose to his lips, and he murmured: "I have got
them, I have got them. We will see; we will see." A waiter asked him:
"What would you like now, Monsieur?" "Nothing. Coffee and cognac. The
best." And he looked at them, as he sipped his brandy. There were too
many people in the restaurant for what he wanted to do, so he would wait
and follow them, for they would be sure to walk on the terrace or in the
forest. When they had got a little distance off, he would join them,
and then he would have his revenge, yes, he would have his revenge! It
was certainly not too soon, after twenty-three years of suffering. Ah!
They little guessed what was to happen to them.

They finished their luncheon slowly, and they talked in perfect
security. Parent could not hear what they were saying, but he saw their
calm movements, and his wife's face, especially, exasperated him. She
had assumed a haughty air, the air of a stout, devout woman, of an
irreproachably devout woman, sheathed in principles, iron-clad in
virtue. Then they paid the bill and got up, and then he saw Limousin. He
might have been taken for a retired diplomatist, for he looked a man of
great importance with his soft, white whiskers, the tips of which fell