moment lost the thread of his story, and the child, who could not
understand him, opened his eyes wide, in astonishment.

Parent never took his eyes off the clock; he thought he could see the
hands move, and he would have liked to have stopped them, until his
wife's return. He was not vexed with her for being late, but he was
frightened, frightened of her and of Julie, frightened at the thought of
all that might happen. Ten minutes more, would suffice to bring about an
irreparable catastrophe, explanations and acts of violence that he did
not dare to picture to himself. The mere idea of a quarrel, of their
loud voices, of insults flying through the air like bullets, the two
women standing face to face, looking at each other and flinging abuse at
one another, made his heart beat, and his tongue as parched as if he had
been walking in the sun, and made him as limp as a rag, so limp that he
no longer had the strength to lift up the child, and to dance him on his
knee.

Eight o'clock struck, the door opened once more and Julie came in again.
She had lost her look of exasperation, but now she put on an air of cold
and determined resolution, which was still more formidable. "Monsieur,"
she said, "I served your mother until the day of her death, and I have
attended to you from your birth until now, and I think it may be said
that I am devoted to the family." She waited for a reply, and Parent
stammered: "Why yes, certainly, my good Julie." She continued: "You know
quite well that I have never done anything for the sake of money, but
always for your sake; that I have never deceived you nor lied to you,
that you have never had to find fault with me..." "Certainly, my good
Julie." "Very well, then, Monsieur, it cannot go on any longer like
this. I have said nothing, and left you in your ignorance, out of
respect and liking for you, but it is too much, and everyone in the