Years passed, and Francois Tessier grew old, without there having been
any alteration in his life. He led the dull, monotonous life of an
office clerk, without hope and without expectation. Every day he got up
at the same time, went through the same streets, went through the same
door, past the same porter, went into the same office, sat in the same
chair, and did the same work. He was alone in the world, alone during
the day in the midst of his different colleagues, and alone at night in
his bachelor's lodgings, and he laid by a hundred francs a month against
old age.
Every Sunday he went to the Champs-Elysees, 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
du 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 Francois 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 anti 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 reserved appearance 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 Francois 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 tormented
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 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; he knew
the fault she had committed and had married her, and had even recognized
the child, his, Francois Tessier's child, as his own.
He returned to the Parc Monceau every Sunday, for then he always saw
her, and each time he was seized with a mad, an irresistible longing to
take his son into his arms, to cover him with kisses and to steal him,
to carry him off.
He suffered horribly in his wretched isolation as an old bachelor, with
nobody to care for him, and he also suffered atrocious mental torture,
torn by paternal tenderness springing from remorse, longing and jealousy
and from that need of loving one's own children which nature has
implanted in all. At last he determined to make a despairing attempt,
and, going up to her, as she entered the park, he said, standing in the
middle of the path, pale and with trembling lips: “You do not recognize
me.” She raised her eyes, looked at him, uttered an exclamation of
horror, of terror, and, taking the two children by the hand, she rushed
away, dragging them after her, while he went home and wept inconsolably.
Months passed without his seeing her again, but he suffered, day and
night, for he was a prey to his paternal love. He would gladly have
died, if he could only have kissed his son; he would have committed
murder, performed any task, braved any danger, ventured anything. He
wrote to her, but she did not reply, and, after writing her some twenty
letters, he saw that there was no hope of altering her determination,
and then he formed the desperate resolution of writing to her husband,
being quite prepared to receive a bullet from a revolver, if need be.
His letter only consisted of a few lines, as follows:
“Monsieur: You must have a perfect horror of my name, but I am so
wretched, so overcome by misery that my only hope is in you, and,
therefore, I venture to request you to grant me an interview of only
five minutes.
“I have the honor, etc.”
The next day he received the reply:
“Monsieur: I shall expect you to-morrow, Tuesday, at five o'clock.”
As he went up the staircase, Francois Tessier's heart beat so violently
that he had to stop several times. There was a dull and violent thumping
noise in his breast, as of some animal galloping; and he could breathe
only with difficulty, and had to hold on to the banisters, in order not
to fall.
He rang the bell on the third floor, and when a maid servant had opened
the door, he asked: “Does Monsieur Flamel live here?” “Yes, monsieur.
Kindly come in.”
He was shown into the drawing-room; he was alone, and waited, feeling
bewildered, as in the midst of a catastrophe, until a door opened, and
a man came in. He was tall, serious and rather stout, and wore a black
frock coat, and pointed to a chair with his hand. Francois Tessier sat
down, and then said, with choking breath: “Monsieur--monsieur--I do not
know whether you know my name--whether you know----”
Monsieur Flamel interrupted him. “You need not tell it me, monsieur, I
know it. My wife has spoken to me about you.” He spoke in the dignified
tone of voice of a good man who wishes to be severe, and with the
commonplace stateliness of an honorable man, and Francois Tessier
continued:
“Well, monsieur, I want to say this: I am dying of grief, of remorse, of
shame, and I would like once, only once to kiss the child.”
Monsieur Flamel got up and rang the bell, and when the servant came
in, he said: “Will you bring Louis here?” When she had gone out, they
remained face to face, without speaking, as they had nothing more to say
to one another, and waited. Then, suddenly, a little boy of ten rushed
into the room and ran up to the man whom he believed to be his father,
but he stopped when he saw the stranger, and Monsieur Flamel kissed him
and said: “Now, go and kiss that gentleman, my dear.” And the child went
up to the stranger and looked at him.
Francois Tessier had risen. He let his hat fall, and was ready to fall
himself as he looked at his son, while Monsieur Flamel had turned away,
from a feeling of delicacy, and was looking out of the window.
The child waited in surprise; but he picked up the hat and gave it to
the stranger. Then Francois, taking the child up in his arms, began to
kiss him wildly all over his face; on his eyes, his cheeks, his mouth,
his hair; and the youngster, frightened at the shower of kisses, tried
to avoid them, turned away his head, and pushed away the man's face with
his little hands. But suddenly Francois Tessier put him down and cried:
“Good-by! good-by!” And he rushed out of the room as if he had been a
thief.