Monsieur Parent

Guy de Maupassant

George's father was sitting in an iron chair, watching his little son with concentrated

affection and attention, as little George piled up the sand into heaps during one of their

walks. He would take up the sand with both hands, make a mound of it, and put a chestnut

leaf on top. His father saw no one but him in that public park full of people.

The sun was just disappearing behind the roofs of the Rue Saint-Lazare, but still shed its

rays obliquely on that little, overdressed crowd. The chestnut trees were lighted up by its

yellow rays, and the three fountains before the lofty porch of the church had the appearance

of liquid silver.

servant who had brought him up, one of those trusted servants who are the tyrants of

families, opened the door to him.

"Has madame come in yet?" he asked anxiously.

The servant shrugged her shoulders:

"When have you ever known madame to come home at half-past six, monsieur?"

"Very well; all the better; it will give me time to change my things, for I am very warm."

The servant looked at him with angry and contemptuous pity. "Oh, I can see that well

enough," she grumbled. "You are covered with perspiration, monsieur. I suppose you

walked quickly and carried the child, and only to have to wait until half-past seven, perhaps,

for madame. I have made up my mind not to have dinner ready on time. I shall get it for

and before another month the situation would become unbearable between the two. He

remained sitting there, with his arms hanging down, vaguely trying to discover some means

to set matters straight, but without success. He said to himself: "It is lucky that I have

George; without him I should-be very miserable."

Just then the clock struck seven, and he started up. Seven o'clock, and he had not even

changed his clothes. Nervous and breathless, he undressed, put on a clean shirt, hastily

finished his toilet, as if he had been expected in the next room for some event of extreme

importance, and went into the drawing-room, happy at having nothing to fear. He glanced at

the newspaper, went and looked out of the window, and then sat down again, when the door

opened, and the boy came in, washed, brushed, and smiling. Parent took him up in his arms

and kissed him passionately; then he tossed him into the air, and held him up to the ceiling,

but soon sat down again, as he was tired with all his exertion. Then, taking George on his

knee, he made him ride a-cock-horse. The child laughed and clapped his hands and shouted

with pleasure, as did his father, who laughed until his big stomach shook, for it amused him

which trembled with exasperation: "It is half-past seven, monsieur."

Parent gave an uneasy and resigned look at the clock and replied: "Yes, it certainly is half-

past seven."

"Well, my dinner is quite ready now."

Seeing the storm which was coming, he tried to turn it aside. "But did you not tell me when

I came in that it would not be ready before eight?"

"Eight! what are you thinking about? You surely do not mean to let the child dine at eight

o'clock? It would ruin his stomach. Just suppose that he only had his mother to look after

him! She cares a great deal about her child. Oh, yes, we will speak about her; she is a

mother! What a pity it is that there should be any mothers like her!"

Eight o'clock struck, the door opened, 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."

"You know quite well," she continued, "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."

"Hold your tongue; you know I have forbidden you----"

But she interrupted him with irresistible resolution. "No, monsieur, I must tell you

everything now. For a long time madame has been carrying on with Monsieur Limousin. I

have seen them kiss scores of times behind the door. Ah! you may be sure that if Monsieur

Limousin had been rich, madame would never have married Monsieur Parent. If you

remember how the marriage was brought about, you would understand the matter from

beginning to end."

Parent had risen, and stammered out, his face livid: "Hold your tongue- hold your tongue,

or----"

She went on, however: "No, I mean to tell you everything. She married you from interest,

yield; she seemed resolved on everything.

George, who had been at first astonished and then frightened at those angry voices, began to

utter shrill screams, and remained behind his father, with his face puckered up and his

mouth open, roaring.

His son's screams exasperated Parent, and filled him with rage and courage. He rushed at

Julie with both arms raised, ready to strike her, exclaiming: "Ah! you wretch. You will

drive the child out of his senses." He already had his hand on her, when she screamed in his

face:

"Monsieur, you may beat me if you like, me who reared you, but that will not prevent your

wife from deceiving you, or alter the fact that your child is not yours----"

He stopped suddenly, let his arms fall, and remained standing opposite to her, so

overwhelmed that he could understand nothing more.

"You need only to look at the child," she added, "to know who is its father! He is the very

image of Monsieur Limousin. You need only look at his eyes and forehead. Why, a blind

reached the kitchen door and escaped, but he ran after her, up the back stairs to her

bedroom, into which she had locked herself, and knocking at the door, he said:

"You will leave my house this very instant!"

"You may be certain of that, monsieur," was her reply. "In an hour's time I shall not be here

any longer."

He then went slowly downstairs again, holding on to the banister so as not to fall, and went

back to the drawing-room, where little George was sitting on the floor, crying. He fell into a

chair, and looked at the child with dull eyes. He understood nothing, knew nothing more; he

felt dazed, stupefied, mad, as if he had just fallen on his head, and he scarcely even

remembered the dreadful things the servant had told him. Then, by degrees, his mind, like

muddy water, became calmer and clearer, and the abominable revelations began to work in

his heart.

He was no longer thinking of George. The child was quiet now and sitting on the carpet;

but, seeing that no notice was being taken of him, he began to cry. His father ran to him,

surely. He could not believe it, could not doubt, even for a moment, that he was his own

child. It was one of those low scandals which spring from servants' brains! And he repeated:

"George--my dear little George." The youngster was quiet again, now that his father was

Parent felt the warmth of the little chest penetrate through his clothes, and it filled him with

love, courage, and happiness; that gentle warmth soothed him, fortified him and saved him.

repeating: "George! Oh, my little George!" But suddenly he thought:

"Suppose he were to resemble Limousin, after all!" He looked at him with haggard,

troubled eyes, and tried to discover whether there was any likeness in his forehead, in his

nose, mouth, or cheeks. His thoughts wandered as they do when a person is going mad, and

resemblances.

he said. "What shall I do?" And he ran and locked himself up in his room, 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. He wished to know the truth, he desired it with the rage of a timid man,

and with the tenacity of an easy-going man who has been exasperated.

Nevertheless, he trembled. 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

explosion. He seized the lock, turned the key, and opening the door, saw his wife and

Limousin standing before him on the stairs.

With an air of astonishment, which also betrayed a little irritation, she said:

"So you open the door now? Where is Julie?"

utter a word.

"Are you dumb?" she continued. "I asked you where Julie is?"

"What was she insolent about?"

"About you."

Parent replied simply: "Well, you were quite right. I am not finding fault with you."

Then Limousin, who, had not spoken till then, and who had been half hidden behind

Henriette, came forward and put out his hand, saying: "Are you very well?"

be back at half-past six, and you returned at half- past eight. That was surely being late. I

understand it perfectly well. I am not at all surprised, even. But--but--I can hardly use any

other word."

"Really! You have got rid of her! But you ought to have given her in charge. In such cases,

one ought to call in the Commissary of Police!"

"But--my dear--I really could not. There was no reason. It would have been very

difficult----"

She shrugged her shoulders disdainfully. "There! you will never be anything but a poor,

have been here for a minute, only for a minute." Then she opened the drawing-room door

and ran to George, took him into her arms and kissed him, and said: "Georgie, what is it,

my darling, my pretty one, my treasure?"

He excused himself as best he could, for he had nearly lost his wits through the

overwhelming scene and the explanation, and felt crushed by this ruin of his life. "But, my

dear, we were waiting for you, as I did not wish to dine without you. As you come home

She threw her bonnet, which she had kept on till then, into an easy- chair, and in an angry

voice she said: "It is really intolerable to have to do with people who can understand

nothing, who can divine nothing and do nothing by themselves. So, I suppose, if I were to

come in at twelve o'clock at night, the child would have had nothing to eat? Just as if you

could not have understood that, as it was after half-past seven, I was prevented from coming

home, that I had met with some hindrance!"

Parent trembled, for he felt that his anger was getting the upper hand, but Limousin

interposed, and turning toward the young woman, said:

"My dear friend, you, are altogether unjust. Parent could not guess that you would come

But Henriette was very angry, and replied:

"Well, at any rate, he must get over the difficulty himself, for I will not help him," she

replied. "Let him settle it!" And she went into her own room, quite forgetting that her child

had not had anything to eat.

which strewed the table and took them out, replaced the plates and knives and forks, and

put the child into his high chair, while Parent went to look for the chambermaid to wait at

He began once more to live nearly like everybody else, like all those idle people who drink

beer off marble- topped tables and wear out their clothes on the threadbare velvet of the

couches.

He grew old amid the smoke from pipes, lost his hair under the gas lights, looked upon his

of a new coat or hat as an event. When he got to his cafe in a new hat he would look at

Two or three times a year he went to the theatre, and in the summer he sometimes spent his

evenings at one of the open-air concerts in the Champs Elysees. And so the years followed

each other slow, monotonous, and short, because they were quite uneventful.

He very rarely now thought of the dreadful drama which had wrecked his life; for twenty

years had passed since that terrible evening. But the life he had led since then had worn him

out. The landlord of his cafe would often say to him: "You ought to pull yourself together a

little, Monsieur Parent; you should get some fresh air and go into the country. I assure you

gone out be used to say to the barmaid: "That poor Monsieur Parent is booked for another

world; it is bad never to get out of Paris. Advise him to go out of town for a day

occasionally; he has confidence in you. Summer will soon be here; that will put him

straight."

as pleasant there as she said, outside the walls of the great city. One morning he said to her:

"Do you know where one can get a good luncheon in the neighborhood of Paris?"

yielded to that new longing, and at having broken through his usual habits. He was thirsty;

he would have liked to get out at every station and sit down in the cafe which he saw

outside and drink a "bock" or two, and then take the first train back to Paris. The journey

seemed very long to him. He could remain sitting for whole days, as long as he had the

Chatou he saw some small boats going at great speed under the vigorous strokes of the

bare-armed oarsmen, and he thought: "There are some fellows who are certainly enjoying

themselves!" The train entered the tunnel just before you get to the station at Saint-

Germain, and presently stopped at the platform. Parent got out, and walked slowly, for he

already felt tired, toward the Terrace, with his hands behind his back, and when he got to

the iron balustrade, stopped to look at the distant horizon. The immense plain spread out

before him vast as the sea, green and studded with large villages, almost as populous as

towns. The sun bathed the whole landscape in its full, warm light. The Seine wound like an

endless serpent through the plain, flowed round the villages and along the slopes. Parent

inhaled the warm breeze, which seemed to make his heart young again, to enliven his

Then he went on a few steps, and stopped again to look about him. The utter misery of his

existence seemed to be brought into full relief by the intense light which inundated the

sea, have interested himself somewhat in everything which other men are passionately

life by those rays of sunlight on the plain.

Parent felt that if he were to remain there any longer he should lose his reason, and he made

haste to get to the Pavilion Henri IV for lunch, to try and forget his troubles under--the

influence of wine and alcohol, and at any rate to have some one to speak to.

carve the chicken?"

And another voice replied: "Yes, mamma."

should certainly not have known them again. His wife had grown quite white and very

stout, an elderly, serious, respectable lady, and she held her head forward as she ate for fear

of spotting her dress, although she had a table napkin tucked under her chin. George had

become a man. He had a slight beard, that uneven and almost colorless beard which adorns

the cheeks of youths. He wore a high hat, a white waistcoat, and a monocle, because it

looked swell, no doubt. Parent looked at him in astonishment. Was that George, his son?

No, he did not know that young man; there could be nothing in common between them.

Limousin had his back to him, and was eating; with his shoulders rather bent.

All three of them seemed happy and satisfied; they came and took luncheon in the country

at well-known restaurants. They had had a calm and pleasant existence, a family existence

with affection, with all those tender words which people exchange continually when they

you. This idea worked upon him more than any other, the idea of a door which one opens,

to see and to embrace somebody behind it.

Parent looked at them, irritated and excited at the recollection of all his sufferings and of his

despair, and was especially exasperated at their placid and satisfied looks. He felt inclined

to kill them, to throw his siphon of Seltzer water at them, to split open Limousin's head as

he every moment bent it over his plate, raising it again immediately.

exasperated him. She had assumed a haughty air, the air of a comfortable, devout woman,

of an unapproachable, devout woman, sheathed in principles, iron-clad in virtue. They paid

their bill and got up from table. Parent then noticed Limousin. He might have been taken

for a retired diplomat, for he looked a man of great importance, with his soft white

whiskers, the tips of which touched his coat collar.

They walked away. Parent rose and followed them. First they went up and down the terrace,

and calmly admired the landscape, and then they went. into the forest. Parent followed them

at a distance, hiding himself so as not to excite their suspicion too soon.

Parent came up to them by degrees, breathing hard with emotion and fatigue, for he was

fear, and he passed them, so as to turn round and meet them face to face. He walked on, his

He turned round. They were all three sitting on the grass, at the foot of a huge tree, and

were still chatting. He made up his mind, and walked back rapidly; stopping in front of

them in the middle of tile road, he said abruptly, in a voice broken by emotion:

am once more, you see, and now we will have an explanation."

Henriette, terrified, hid her face in her hands, murmuring: "Oh! Good heavens!"

Seeing this stranger, who seemed to be threatening his mother, George sprang up, ready to

seize him by the collar. Limousin, thunderstruck, looked in horror at this apparition, who,

after gasping for breath, continued:

"So now we will have an explanation; the proper moment has come! Ah! you deceived me,

wretches!"

The young man, thunderstruck, unclenched his fists and turned toward his mother. Parent,

as soon as he was released, approached her.

"Well," he said, "tell him yourself who I am! Tell him that my name is Henri Parent, that I

am his father because his name is George Parent, because you are my wife, because you are

you since I drove you out of my house. Will you tell him also why I drove you out? Because

I surprised you with this beggar, this wretch, your lover! Tell him what I was, an honorable

man, whom you married for money, and whom you deceived from the very first day. Tell

him who you are, and who I am----"

voice:

"I quite know what I am doing," resumed Parent, "and that is not all. There is one thing that

lying? I do not know. I have been asking myself the question for the last twenty years." He

went close up to her, tragic and terrible, and, pulling away her hands, with which she had

covered her face, he continued:

I, your husband or your lover. Come! Come! tell us."

Limousin rushed at him. Parent pushed him back, and, sneering in his fury, he said: "Ah!

you are brave now! You are braver than you were that day when you ran downstairs because

you thought I was going to murder you. Very well! If she will not reply, tell me yourself.

You ought to know as well as she. Tell me, are you this young fellow's father? Come!

Come! Tell me!"

He turned to his wife again. "If you will not tell me, at any rate tell your son. He is a man,

now, and he has the right to know who his father is. I do not know, and I never did know,

"Come! . . . Give me an answer. She does not know . . . I will make a bet that she does not

know . . . No . . . she does not know, by Jove! Ha! ha! ha! Nobody knows . . . nobody . . .

How can one know such things?

You will not know either, my boy, you will not know any more than I do . . . never. . . .

Look here . . . Ask her you will find that she does not know . . . I do not know either . . . nor

does he, nor do you, nobody knows. You can choose . . . You can choose . . . yes, you can

choose him or me. . . Choose.

Good evening . . . It is all over. If she makes up her mind to tell you, you will come and let

me know, will you not? I am living at the Hotel des Continents . . . I should be glad to know

. . . Good evening . . . I hope you will enjoy yourselves very much . . ."

And he went away gesticulating, talking to himself under the tall trees, in the quiet, the cool

them, but went straight on, walking under the stimulus of his rage, under a storm of

When she saw him come in, Mademoiselle Zoe asked in surprise: "What! back already? are

you tired?"

"Yes--yes, I am tired . . . very tired . . . You know, when one is not used to going out. . . I've

had enough of it. I shall not go into the country again. It would have been better to have

stayed here. For the future, I shall not stir out."

For the first time in his life he got thoroughly drunk that night, and had to be carried home.

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