old age.

Every Sunday he went to the _Champs-Elysées_, to watch the elegant
people, the carriages and the pretty women, and the next day he used to
say to one of his colleagues: "The return of the carriages from the
_Bois de Boulogne_ was very brilliant yesterday." One fine Sunday
morning, however, he went into the _Parc Monceau_, where the mothers and
nurses, sitting on the sides of the walks, watched the children playing,
and suddenly François Tessier started. A woman passed by, holding two
children by the hand; a little boy of about ten and a little girl of
four. It was she.

He walked another hundred yards, and then fell into a chair, choking
with emotion. She had not recognized him, and so he came back, wishing
to see her again. She was sitting down now, and the boy was standing by
her side very quietly, while the little girl was making sand castles. It
was she, it was certainly she, but she had the serious looks of a lady,
was dressed simply, and looked self-possessed and dignified. He looked
at her from a distance, for he did not venture to go near, but the
little boy raised his head, and François Tessier felt himself tremble.
It was his own son, there could be no doubt of that. And as he looked at
him, he thought he could recognize himself as he appeared in an old
photograph taken years ago. He remained hidden behind a tree, waiting
for her to go, that he might follow her.

He did not sleep that night. The idea of the child especially harrassed
him. His son! Oh! If he could only have known, have been sure? But what
could he have done? However, he went to the house where she had lived,
and asked about her. He was told that a neighbor, an honorable man of
strict morals, had been touched by her distress, and had married her;