"'Yes, monsieur; she died in childbirth some time after.'

"And, pointing to the courtyard where a thin, lame man was stirring up
the manure, he added:

"'That is her son.'

"I began to laugh:

"'He is not handsome and does not look much like his mother. No doubt he
looks like his father.'

"'That is very possible,' replied the innkeeper; 'but we never knew whose
child it was. She died without telling any one, and no one here knew of
her having a beau. Every one was hugely astonished when they heard she
was enceinte, and no one would believe it.'

"A sort of unpleasant chill came over me, one of those painful surface
wounds that affect us like the shadow of an impending sorrow. And I
looked at the man in the yard. He had just drawn water for the horses and
was carrying two buckets, limping as he walked, with a painful effort of
his shorter leg. His clothes were ragged, he was hideously dirty, with
long yellow hair, so tangled that it looked like strands of rope falling
down at either side of his face.

"'He is not worth much,' continued the innkeeper; 'we have kept him for
charity's sake. Perhaps he would have turned out better if he had been
brought up like other folks. But what could one do, monsieur? No father,
no mother, no money! My parents took pity on him, but he was not their
child, you understand.'