ing. "Yes—we have the same nose—the same nose perhaps, but that is not sure—and the same look. But no, he has blue eyes. Then—good heavens! I shall go mad. I cannot see anything more—I am going mad!"
He went away from the glass, to the other end of the drawing-room, and putting the child into an easy-chair, he fell into another and began to cry. He sobbed so violently that George, who was frightened at hearing him, immediately began to scream. The hall bell rang, and Parent gave a bound as if a bullet had gone through him.
"There she is," he said. "What shall I do?" And he ran and locked himself up in his room, so at any rate to have time to bathe his eyes. But in a few moments another ring at the bell made him jump again, and then he remembered that Julie had left without the housemaid knowing it, and so nobody would go to open the door. What was he to do? He went himself, and suddenly he felt brave, resolute, ready for dissimulation and the struggle. The terrible blow had matured him in a few moments, and then he wished to know the truth, he wished it with the rage of a timid man, with the tenacity of an easy-going man who has been exasperated.
But nevertheless he trembled! Was it fear? Yes. Perhaps he was still frightened of her? Does one know how much excited cowardice there often is in boldness? He went to the door with furtive steps, and stopped to listen; his heart beat furiously, and he heard nothing but the noise of that dull throbbing in his chest, and of George's shrill voice, who was still crying in the drawing-room. Suddenly, however, the noise of the bell over his head startled him like an explosion; then he seized the lock, turned the key, and, opening the door, saw his wife and Limousin standing before him on the steps.
With an air of astonishment, which also betrayed a little irration she said: "So you open the door now? Where is Julie?" His throat felt tight and his breathing was labored, and he tried to reply without being able to utter a word, so she continued:
"Are you dumb? I asked you where Julie is?"
And then he managed to say: "She—she—has—gone."
Whereupon his wife began to get angry. "What do you mean by gone. Where has she gone? Why?"
By degrees he regained his coolness, and he felt rising in him an immense hatred for that insolent woman who was standing before him. "Yes, she has gone altogether. I sent her away."
"You have sent away Julie? Why, you must be mad."
"Yes, I sent her away because she was insolent—and because, because she was ill-using the child."
"Julie?"
"Yes, Julie."
"What was she insolent about?"
"About you."
"About me?"
"Yes, because the dinner was burnt and you did not come in."
"And she said?"
"She said offensive things about you, which I ought not—which I could not listen to."
"What did she say?"
"It is no good repeating them."
